


The Way to a Heart

by drivelings



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dumb acts of self-sacrifice, Gen, Hanzo is a brat, Lots of Food, Mentions of Starvation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drivelings/pseuds/drivelings
Summary: An army marches on its stomach, and it's the responsibility of a chef to keep everyone fed. This is the story of the chef of Watchpoint: Gibraltar.





	1. Chapter 1

When Hanzo first joins Overwatch, it was just as tumultuous as the world around him.

Experiences of each agent—clashing ideologies were a focal point that nearly every argument gravitated around, and tensions only mounted with the addition of world-famous ex-weightlifter, Aleksandra “Zarya” Zaryanova, and Vishkar architect, Satya Vaswani into their fold. (They are perfectly fine people on their own--barring their prejudices that make conversation outside of the simulations a bit terse--but it is not an issue Hanzo concerns himself with.)

The defunct Overwatch nearly crumbles on its own foundation before it’s even able to take off, the barrier of differing morals and methodologies is their greatest barrier to overcome. Fighting Talon is easy. Fighting for a cause as loose as ‘world peace’ is a fool’s errand made more complicated by the differing standpoints of each agent.

Hanzo understands this well, but needs no part of it, seeking refuge in either the highest elevation of the Watchpoint, the training rooms, or the cool and impartial cafeteria where the only judgment passed is from himself unto the limited food choices presented to him on the terminals. He found himself visiting the latter more often than he himself would have expected.

The cafeteria is a sanctuary where everyone is servant to the whims of their stomach, and he is no different. Here, no arguments take place, mouths stuffed full with food, and plenty of space for bickering agents to avoid each other. High domed ceiling like those in Western movies that his brother once fancied, and a sturdy pillar every few meters, and its ever present deacon presiding over them, the ‘Chef’ (named aptly so by the other Overwatch members).

He’s never exchanged any words with this ‘Chef’ who is never there at the service window long enough for him to do so, and he has no desire for idle chatter like the American cowboy or the chronically-challenged pilot, retreating into his familiar—but prickly—solitude once he has his meal. The food is filling and demands for seconds are made equally as delicious as the first without question. (His first meal here was undoubtedly Japanese–not quite the gourmet he once had as the master of the Shimada clan–-the miso soup too watery, and the rice not quite correct in texture, but he devoured it with gusto regardless, shamelessly ordering seconds and thirds.)

The cafeteria is convenient, although a bit restricting at times: off-menu requests were often left not honored, an issue that the abnormally intelligent gorilla—‘Winston,’ his memory supplies—explains is due to the lack of shipping routes to this area. Too dangerous, too conspicuous. Especially with the Royal Gibraltar Police around—it’s hard to say if they’d rat out Overwatch to the UN, but it’s a chance that Winston did not want to take.

However, restrictions aside, it is much better than those days he spent on the run, eating nothing but skewers of chicken or riceballs and, if he was feeling particularly luxurious, ramen. There is no shortage of seafood or rice dishes for some inexplicable reason. (It’s cheap and easy to obtain, he later finds out.) 

This delights some members of the new Overwatch crew, and not so much the others, who seem to be more used to dishes of a different variety (or more variety, really), but the creative ways that fish can be prepared is something that Hanzo secretly delights in, even if he doesn’t always enjoy them. 

(The seabass two nights ago, and the clams before that, and the bream before that contained far too much butter. And there always seems to be an abundance of bread–European bread with crust too hard and too dense for his liking.)

But what he wouldn’t give to have some actual meat in his diet. It seemed like an era ago since he’s had any. There was lamb during his second week here. That, too, was doused in butter and far too many herbs, but it was indeed delicious with none of the pungent gaminess that lamb is known for having. Each day, he peruses the digital menu, growing more and more disappointed with the lack of meat choices.

However, he’s quick to take notice of the extensive stock of tea that the Gibraltar kitchen has to offer him. There’s even a ‘no preference’ option which he has always skimmed over in favor of something more familiar: _sencha, genmaicha, hojicha_.

Even if he had no company he could truly call “friend” here in Overwatch, the cup of tea he usually has in his hands and the faceless chef behind the counter makes for a good filler.

But the solitude does not remain for long, especially after a few near-misses during the few missions he’s quickly volunteered for. Saving another person’s life and having your life saved in return always seems to have a strange way of bringing people together.

Admittedly, it was uncomfortable, but not displeasing.

More and more people find their way into his previous life of solitude, prying him out with different activities that barely give him the time to sink into the darker recesses of his mind. People slowly begin pulling his attention left and right for this reason or that.

Training with Genji.

A friendly rivalry with the cowboy, McCree.

A sort of mentorship with Hana.

An unexpected understanding with Roadhog (which spells very, very terrible things for the other junker).

Discussions on strategy and team composition with Soldier: 76.

He even partakes in Ana’s afternoon tea time at her behest. Not that he would ever refuse a woman who could knock his arrow out of the air with a single shot, and who is his senior in more ways than one.

Yes, his days slowly fill up with the company of those whom he could begin to call comrades.

Hanzo no longer needs to visit his previous haunts or hide from the loose companionship being offered to him.

However, his first sanctuary remains ever unchanging. 

Even now at four in the morning after some harsh nightmare, he would be able to order some tea for himself–he’d normally go for sake, but his brother promptly tried smashing his bottle the first time around, so tea would have to do. And if he is lucky, sometimes it’s accompanied by an unsolicited sweet. (He was secretly delighted when he was gifted with anything containing chunky red bean—the sticky rice cake with red bean filling last week was divine, especially lightly fried on both sides and still hot from the pan—he came down every day after that for a taste, but was disappointed when his efforts went unrewarded.) 

The lights of the cafeteria would be off, but not long after setting foot in the cavernous room would everything come to life—kitchen included.

He orders at the terminal as always and waits with his back against the wall, listening to the quiet clattering of the ever-working chef. You must be an omnic. Only omnics are awake at all hours. Or a service-bot. In all his time here, it’s never really occurred to him that you could be anything else.

It would take several minutes before a tray would be ready at the service window which spans the height of lower chest-to his hip with a partition splitting it horizontally. It is a wide window, meant for many dishes to be put out at once. It may have proved its use back in Overwatch’s heyday, but now, it now more of a fanciful decoration than anything else. 

Like the many times before, the sound of a service bell–how old-fashioned–goes off, and his tray is there: iron pot with a handle-less teacup, an extra kettle thermos just in case he requires a second steeping. And like before, he does not dip his head to take a look at the one who has provided him such a service, but he does stand at the window for a moment, glowering at the lack of treat.

(He doesn’t dare complain because he knows it’s fruitless. He’s tried and was met with the pathetic echoes of his own voice.)

He takes a seat by the window, bathed in the silver moonlight and pours out the tea. A light green, almost yellow. The smell of wet grass is overwhelming. The correct amount of heat and tea leaves that slips down his throat easily, leaving none of that overwhelming bitterness on his tongue that usually accompanies a poorly made cup or poor quality leaves. The chef makes a nice brew.

He raises his cup briefly to the moon shining through the windows, to the chef, and to this sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; it took a year of back and forth before I decided to post this anywhere. I can only hope that I have the discipline to finish.


	2. Chapter 2

Your day starts whenever your customers demand it, whether it be seven in the evening for Reinhardt’s warm milk or three in the afternoon for Ana’s ‘tea parties’. The three main meals of the day are also ad-hoc as the agents are always coming in and out of the base at unpredictable times, work through their mealtimes, and (perhaps the worst offense of all) just plain refuse to eat.

Your day ended whenever all agents have retired for the day (or night); those days are few and far between. It wouldn’t do to be unavailable when an agent is going hungry, so the time in between orders are filled with other tasks: cleaning, prep work, checking inventory, attending and scheduling remote meetings, planning menus, updating ledgers, maintaining the kitchen tools, etc. The days of twenty chefs in the kitchen at its peak hours (six at its lowest), everyone with a specific responsibility, are long gone.

Sleep came in the form of naps that pass in a blink. A proper night’s rest was impossible with agents like McCree, who is constantly haunted by nightmares and seek the companionship of alcohol to keep them at bay, and Agent D.Va, who refuses to sleep at an appropriate time and wanders often into the cafeteria in search of a late night snack (and some interesting, albeit one-sided, conversations).

Mornings, however quick they come, bring about the need to double check inventory to ensure that no one has come into the kitchen and filched anything. While Athena keeps the place under close watch while you sleep and will alert you of any intruders, she’s not omnipotent.

You bite your lip as you go through the numbers, slipping in and out of the walk-in freezer, counting up near-empty containers, meticulously labeled in blue tape and sorted by category.

It shouldn’t surprise you so much since the growth of the organization would naturally come with the growth of appetites, but whenever Agent Hanzo orders, the food supplies deplete rapidly. At first, you had chalked it up to malnutrition from being on the run for so long and not having a proper meal, but it is beginning to wear on your limited resources. It’s lucky he’s not at the base often, having to get shipped off with other agents for various missions. (Though, the demands for seconds never fails to make you smile and your heart swell—nothing is better than to know your customers have a healthy appetite and enjoy your cooking.) Between him, Agent Zarya, Agent Reinhardt, and Agent Roadhog, it’s impossible to predict just how much food you’d need without over-ordering.

“Athena. Stats, please.”

From one of the screens high above the kitchen, once (and still is) used to show the incoming orders, the statistics of how many calories each agent has burned and a rough estimate of how much they consumed (and lost) within the past twenty-four hours are posted for your scrutiny.

You thin your lips and pace the kitchen, tapping the notepad in your hand. Agent Soldier: 76 has been at the top of the charts lately, and returning his food only half-finished and cold hours later. (It’s painful in more ways than one when you have to scrape off the crusted remains; it makes sleep even more difficult to come by). There’s also the matter of Agent Symmetra’s dietary restrictions; Agent Mei’s lactose intolerance; Agent D.Va’s preference for spicy food; Agent Reinhardt’s health; the list goes on and on.

As disappointing as it is, it’s also a blessing that some agents do not require food (like Agent Zenyatta, who politely passes by your window with a gentle greeting and a friendly wave that you would return shyly. Agent Winston, on the other hand, refuses to eat much beyond peanut butter related delectables and takes the combined effort of Athena and yourself to convince him to eat something different.

You flip through your list again, already mentally trying to piece together a menu for today’s meals and snacks from the limited ingredients. There’s always an abundance of rice, so you may have to stick with that again. Maybe some congee for breakfast with some shredded ginger on top (extra ginger for Agent Solider: 76 to open up his appetite). That could help with the rationing, but it’s not necessarily something that all agents would enjoy. Maybe oatmeal should also be given as an option today. But then it’d require toppings that you don’t have.

You turn a page, pursing your lips.

Perhaps the flour reserved specifically for Captain Amari’s cookies may have to find its way into everyone else’s food. (It’s a secret stash of ingredients specially ordered for the woman’s afternoon tea gatherings. You took great joy in watching these sessions from the screens in your kitchen, oven still hot and kettle at the ready in case more provisions were needed. You had watched friendships forged over the buttery, crumbly treats, and several relationships mended from a single cup of tea.)

You shake your head of the thought. No, you could never do that to her. The old Head Chef would have your head (but not before Captain Amari did).

Perhaps from another source…

Your sigh echoes in the cavernous kitchen.

The notepad is placed onto an empty counter, and you roll up your sleeves.

It’s four days until the next shipment, almost all agents are present. Running out to buy more ingredients is plausible, but risky, and funds were being allocated elsewhere at the moment. If you’re careful and creative enough, you can stretch the current inventory over these remaining days. 

And the health and well-being of the agents always came first.

You’ll make this work somehow.

Two days have passed.

You chew some mint leaves, the soothing taste counteracts the slow burning in your stomach that is slowly crawling up into your chest that you steadfastly ignore.

‘Captain Amari prefers this without sauce and a lemon wedge,’ you remind yourself as you finish plating the fish. You reach into the garnish counter with shaky fingers and place the citrus slice beside the well-seasoned, pan-roasted sea bass fillet with blistered asparagus and grape tomatoes. Two slices of thick bread (no butter), her tea (dark like the night with mint), and her appetizers are at the ready on the tray.

You deliver it to the window where the woman waits—you didn’t even have to ring the bell.

The woman slides the tray over to the side, leaning in and down onto the counter. “Have you eaten yet?”

The insides of your stomach prickles and aches at the question, and you have to resist the urge to press down on it. Captain Amari is far too sharp for a woman of her years.

You thread your fingers together to disguise the trembling.

A thick french accent rises from your memories, sharp and loud, “ _Chefs do not eat until their customers have eaten._ ” It echoes in your mind, stabbing itself into your stomach repeatedly.

“I will,” you lie. “After, after I have served everyone.” The paltry numbers of today’s inventory flashes through your head.

She huffs, disbelieving. “In that case, I will not be having my cookies today.”

“You…won’t?”

Your mind betrays you and immediately begins concocting recipes that could make use of the eggs, flour, butter, and sugar that the sniper’s cookies normally call for. Tortillas, pancakes, velouté sauce, pretzels, soufflés–the possibilities stream in like a torrent at the behest of your aching stomach. It’s enough to make you salvate just a bit.

“No, I believe I’ve had my fill for now.”

Integrity shocks your mind out of its gluttonous stupor of handmade pasta, puff pastry, vol-au-vent, and pierogi, and you slap your hands against the counter in alarm.

“Are the, the cookies no longer to your satisfaction? Do they require adjustment? Too much sugar? Too little sugar? Should I change the flour?”

She chuckles, one bony hand resting firmly atop yours. You jerk back, but her grip is too strong. She leans down and pokes her head through the window to peer at you with her single eye. You lean back and look away–her gaze is too sharp, she can likely see the weariness beneath your eyes and the crackling of your lips. You run your tongue over them self-consciously.

“Feed yourself,” she chides firmly, wagging a finger. “Do _not_ make me come in there.”

It is against the rules for non-kitchen staff to enter this sanctuary, but even so, you take her threat to heart. “Yes, madame.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Close the kitchen for an hour, and eat.” Without giving you any room for argument, she picks up her tray and walks away, the tail of her jacket flowing behind her.

The quiet holds you for a moment before you look up at the screen. It’s blank, but the clock is nearing noon. Closing the kitchen now would mean that the agents would have to wait until you’re finished, and that wouldn’t do. Maybe you could get by with chewing on some more mint until after lunch is served.

You suddenly grab your midsection when the fire in your stomach flares up angrily as if to protest your decisions, dry coughs disappearing into the sleeve of your elbow. It takes a few moments for you to compose yourself, but by then, your vision is swimming with dots of blues, greens, and whites.

Maybe you should heed Captain Amari’s wisdom, after all.

When Ana comes for her afternoon tea, before you hand off her order, you ask again, “Arre you absolutely certain you would not like to have your cookies, Cap–Agent Ana?”

Granted, it would take half an hour to make them at this point, but the nagging in your mind remains.

“I’m very sure,” she assures you. “Have you eaten yet?”

Embers still burn in your stomach, but it’s bearable–not worth a mention.

“I have, thank you.“

It’s the spare heads, fins, and tails of the seabass you have served everyone made into a broth over some leftover rice, but was still a meal that placated your stomach. (You had decided to save the ingredients Captain Amari so generously offered for another occasion—maybe make her some _aish baladi_ —Egyptian bread. It’s not your strong point, but it was something you were willing to attempt for her.)

"Good. You must keep yourself in good health, we are counting on you.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

She scoffs, muttering something fond under her breath as she hefts the tray. "Now, I don’t suppose you could join us today?”

It’s not the first time she’s asked you to join her for tea. But what if someone orders and you’re not there to receive it? What if they see you sitting around, joking, laughing, and making merry with the other agents while they stand at the terminal, waiting?

Your hands fly to your face and you inhale sharply. No, that won’t do. Eating with your customers is something you can’t do. A chef does not eat before or during their customer’s meal times without someone there to cover.

“Thank you for the offer, but—I couldn’t.”

The older Amari hums contemplatively. “We’ll get you to join us one day.”

“Please enjoy your tea,” you say, pretending that her comment was just kind teasing and not a threat.

“Where are the cookies?” is the immediate reaction from Hanzo, who has started to become a regular member of these little get-togethers. 

“Why, is that all this old woman is good for? Are the cookies the only reason you keep me company?”

“I–no, you are mistaken.” Hanzo looks away, crossing his arms tightly against himself. 

“I’m just teasing,” she says warmly, placing the tray of cups and kettle on the table. Hanzo grunts, acknowledging the sentiment, but still indignant.

"Oh, let me.” Mei is quick to lay out the cups and pour the tea while Ana takes her rightful seat. Hanzo looks irked that he would not be having Ana’s specialty cookies today, but a quick pat from the senior sniper on his arm changes that.

“Don’t pout. We’ll have some next time.” 

“I do not pout. Do not be ridiculous.”

She gives him a smug look over the rim of her cup that he tries to pointedly ignore with a loud slurp of his tea and winces at the taste–just a little too dark, doused far too heavily in sugar and mint.

From the kitchen, you stifle a laugh behind your hand as you watch Hanzo’s reaction from the screens where the orders normally appear, jotting down in your notepad to make up for this lack of cookies, and that Agent Hanzo dislikes Koshary tea.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time since his arrival two or three months ago, the terminals are all off, an obstinate “Closed” message written across them in glaring red letters when Hanzo enters the cafeteria at four in the morning following another sleepless night.

It’s an odd sight that has him staring at the terminals longer than necessary.

Why is the kitchen closed? It’s never happened before. Perhaps you needed repairs? A recharge?

He can’t rightly say he knows how Omnics work. Or a service-bot. Whichever you were. It’s only vaguely embarrassing that after so long, he’s still never interacted with you in any capacity. It really shouldn’t be necessary, you’re just a cook, after all. Although, you’re a considerate one who occasionally grants him desserts with his tea and made an attempt to cook something resembling Japanese cuisine when he first arrived.

Maybe you’re just resting or on standby? He walks up to the service window and squints through the darkness of the kitchen.

It is pitch black, bereft of any presence.

“Chef?”

“The chef is presently unavailable, Agent Hanzo, please come again later.“

Hanzo nearly slams his head against the partition in surprise, and it’s only through years of practice that he manages to play it off like he’s pulling his head from the wall’s gap. The archer glares at the ceiling briefly, annoyed that the AI did not inform him sooner. Maybe she wants him to look foolish, or took some sick pleasure in watching people struggle.

It’s hard not to let biases get the better of him after all these years.

“You should have informed me sooner,” he snaps.

“My apologies.”

He’s sure it’s not really apologetic–probably doesn’t even know the meaning of the word (he’s guilty of the same). With an annoyed huff, he goes around to the kitchen doors. Surely, no one would mind him going into the kitchen for tea.

The doors do not budge, only rattle loudly beneath his hands. Confused, he tries again. Still, his entry is denied.

“The kitchen is off-limits to all non-kitchen personnel, Agent Hanzo.”

“I just require some tea.”

She does not respond, but Hanzo hears nothing that would indicate that the doors have been unlocked.

“Open these doors!”

“I’m sorry, Agent Hanzo. I cannot allow that.”

He scowls, irritation building slowly in the pit of his stomach—a result of weariness and a treat denied. It’s ridiculous that he cannot even get a simple cup (albeit, very delicious) tea without the chef’s supervision.

If he crawls through the service window, he’d get his prize, but he’s not so desperate as to get caught shimmying through the partition with his behind sticking out of it like a fool.

He turns his face (and irritation) upward. “When will the chef return?”

“Unfortunately, that is not known at this time.”

Again, this is ridiculous.

“Please return later,” the disembodied voice insists more firmly.

Hanzo doesn’t like the idea of being bossed around by an AI or an absent cook. (Though, he prefers having a chef than not–he’s not sure if he really wants the other agents cooking for him based off their questionable stories and tastes.) There should be no reason the kitchen should be considered a restricted area.

There is likely a story behind this that he’s not privy to. Not that he cares for it, but this is a point of ire for him.

“ _Fine_ ,” Hanzo spits out, barely restraining the urge to slam a fist into the doors. “I will return.”

Begrudgingly, he returns to his room and produces a few crumpled bags of tea he’s had since before his arrival and a tin cup. There’s a water dispenser not far from his room that he can’t seem to adjust the temperature of. It’sNot only is it ridiculous that he’s not allowed to enter the kitchen, it’s also ridiculous that they’re not allowed to have any small appliances in their personal rooms. Something about fire hazards and limited electricity.

When Hanzo sips his new cup of tea, he grimaces, a violent shudder from the tip of his tongue goes through straight to his toes and makes his jaw tingle and ache.

It is bitter.

###### 

The warehouse is abuzz with activity, even at the break of dawn. Couriers, chefs, and other personnel are running back and forth, loading up trucks and yelling out orders. The areas smells delightful, savory, and utterly mouth-watering. Your stomach bubbles and aches, calling out to the sinful abundance of food in the area. It’s been a rough two days, ingredients running out just the night before–it’s a relief that no one seems to have noticed, orders for seconds still coming in from your regulars.

The clock on the warehouse wall reads: 04:20AM. You really hope that Agent Hanzo or Agent McCree didn’t have another sleepless night and was looking for you. You’d hate to disappoint them or anyone else who may need your services, but this took precedence. You hide a yawn behind your hand, tipping the courier’s hat over your eyes, squinting to read the list on your holo-tablet. This is why you prefer your notepad–sometimes you don’t feel like staring at the light for too long.

“Did you receive satisfactory rest, my dear?”

Ignoring the question, you tap the tablet close. “Is the truck loaded up?”

An Omnic woman, dressed in black slacks and an elegant white button up shirt does an exaggerated bow. She’s an odd sight in a warehouse full of such casually dressed people. “Loaded to your satisfaction.”

"Don’t take credit for something you didn’t do, Argus,” yells a man who comes out the back of the vehicle. He’s dressed less formally in white slacks and a tank top, a towel wrapped tight around his head and curly hair sticking out of it.

The woman— _Argus Twenty_ (best known simply as Argus)–laughs, covering her mouth plate with her hand. “I jest, I jest.”

You ignore the two’s playful bantering, long used to their antics, counting the boxes of raw ingredients—tomatoes; bell peppers; rice; spices; instant noodles; six different hot sauces–in your truck when you come upon a tank-like appliance.

“What’s this?” You splay your hands over the glass window and gasp. “Is this a whole tuna? Wait. No way, is that _Bluefin_!?”

The man gives you a thumbs-up. “Cryogenically frozen, straight from the shore of Japan. Thought you’d like it, boss.”

Seared tuna steak, tartare with medley of herbs and a balsamic vinaigrette reduction, marinated seared tuna with a citrus combination, breaded with beer batter and fried—you practically salivate at the thought before you shake yourself out of it.

“I can’t take what I didn’t order, you know this, Asim.” As stern as your tone is, you can’t help but think of the possibilities.

“But it’s on the house, dear,” Argus says, a smile in her voice.

“You should take it. I mean, you wouldn’t want it to go to waste, now would you, boss?”

For a minute more, you observe the fish inside, seemingly asleep and blissfully unaware of its intended fate (or perhaps it’s long been conscious of it—the animal kingdom is eat or be eaten, after all). You inspect the tank, feeling all around and checking the settings.

There’s no internal debate after your inspection and you bodily haul the entire tank out of the hatch. Both man and Omnic scramble to help, but you elbow them off.

“I don’t take what I don’t order. It screws up my menu plans.”

“I saw your ingredients list,” Asim huffs indignantly as he slowly wheels away the tank, “you don’t have enough protein. How do you expect them to keep their muscle mass?”

You give him a long sweeping look from navel to top, sarcastically and silently asking, ‘And you’re the one to talk?’ He only flexes one mildly impressive and scarred arm in response. It’s nothing compared to the guns on Agent Hanzo or even close to the ones on Agent Zarya.

“If you won’t take the fish, you should at least stay for breakfast, you must be hungry,” the Omnic offers knowingly. You don’t have time to be indignant as someone comes up from behind Argus, and she has to go shout orders at another crew of truckers who scurry off to do her bidding. You pull the hat tighter over your eyes.

How long has it been since someone’s cooked a meal for you outside of tastings and evaluations? Maybe not since the days you stopped being an apprentice. It is a nice thought, but you had customers waiting for your return (probably), and the burning of your stomach reminds you that it’s probably time to get some medicine in it.

“Thanks for the help, you two,” you shout, catching their attention, “but I need to head back. I have a lot of prep work to do.”

You slip the tablet into the deepest pocket of your courier jacket.

You close the doors of the cargo area and get into the driver’s seat. The woman gets up and hauls herself up through the open window, arms folded. You’re sure she’ll ruin her nice shirt with the filth and grease on the side of the truck.

"I really wished you’d stay longer, it’s very lonely without you, dear.” Her voice drops suddenly. “By the by, my dear, one of the members of the EU came here yesterday, he wanted to make a donation.”

Leaning into her, you ask quietly, “A donation or a ‘ _donation_ ’?”

She responds with air quotes and then slips you a sliver of paper. You take one look at it and slide it into your pockets. She jumps off the truck which rattles and groans in displeasure. It’s an old thing from a bygone time, but it still runs and is the perfect size for your mission. Inconspicuous and reliable.

“Got it, I’ll take care of this. Keep an eye on things for me.”

“Will do, dear!”

“And I’ll make sure she does, boss.”

You watch the man clap a hand onto the Omnic’s shoulder, give them a wave before you start up your truck and drive off, watching them both and the warehouse slowly disappear through the side-view mirror.

Now then, what should breakfast be?

###### 

Hanzo returns to the cafeteria a couple of hours later, still miffed that he was jilted not long ago.

Already, the smell of breakfast reaches his nose. It’s salty, spicy, and smells to be much more than the meager spread you’ve been serving the past week— _congee, really_?

Roadhog, surprisingly, is an early-riser. Reinhardt and Ana, as well. Oddly enough, they all seem to get along quite well if the way they talk (and Roadhog listens) over breakfast is any indication. 

He’s surprised to see the menu to be longer than normal. It’s diverse and boasts more than just the usual ‘regular’ menu and ‘vegetarian’ menu. Eggs; toast; home fries; pancakes; sausages; bacon; a full American style breakfast. It’s almost enough to make him forgive being served congee for almost a week. He doesn’t question the sudden increase in choice.

Hanzo orders all that he can (and the sencha he’s been craving several hours earlier) because while your timing is inconvenient, at least your cooking does not disappoint.

Breakfast is served with the ring of the service bell, and he has half a mind to demand where you were this morning, but you’re already gone. There’s shuffling and the clinking of metal, everything to indicate that you’re busy and in no position to speak or hear his grievances.

Fine. You’re just a cook, anyway.

“Hanzo, come join us!” Reinhardt, even at this time in the morning, is far too loud for his own good.

The archer knows he should decline if he wants his day to begin peacefully, but that smile that Ana gives him—it’s strange how such a serene smile from this woman can be considered a threat—makes him reconsider. When he first arrived, he would’ve ignored that look (but these past few months taught him it’s much better to entertain the senior sniper’s whims than to go against them lest he wants to be without healing in the upcoming battles or get humiliated during simulated matches).

He takes a seat beside the Junker who acknowledges him with a grunt. The two of them have a mutual understanding of each other: stay out of the other’s way and all will be well. Though, it seems that Roadhog is lesser of a homicidal maniac off the field, often a literal force of reason, which is much appreciated when Junkrat or other members of Overwatch are involved.

“Good, good. Now, where were we?” Reinhardt combs through his whitened beard. “Oh, yes. The next week mission–” When conversing, however, the crusader’s voice takes on a much more solemn and quiet tone—something that Hanzo appreciates especially at this hour when his ears are not yet ready for it.

He notices when he sets down his tray that everyone else’s dish seems to have colorful red, yellow, and green peppers among their home fries. His own are completely devoid of them, and an indescribable feeling oozes down his back.

Not once has he ever told anyone his likes and dislikes—it’s considered a weakness and childish. It’s unbecoming for a man of his age to be picky about his food, and to be able to eat so well after being on the run for so many years is a blessing. Any time he’s encountered peppers, he would eat them with as much maturity as he can muster, but he’d chew through them much faster than usual and sometimes chase it with a drink of tea (or sake, depending on his location). However, the lack of bell peppers in his food is thorough proof to him that food preferences are not so well guarded, after all.

It should disturb him that his eating habits are being monitored so carefully. He should take a page out of Winston’s book and tell Athena to stop monitoring him. You and the AI must be hooking up to each other and sharing information.

But it’s a very considerate gesture he appreciates, nonetheless. He would never say it aloud, but it’s much more preferable than having to shove it into his mouth and force himself to eat any, politely pretending that the acrid taste doesn’t make him want to spit it out.

Reluctantly, he decides that he could probably forgive you for not being available this morning in deference to your kindness. However, even as he listens to the conversation between the two former Overwatch members, the question of why the kitchen is forbidden to all agents settle firmly in the back of his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a spot in the Watchpoint where there’s a perfect view of the horizon that separates the sky from sea, where the fishing boats can be seen bowing to the will of the waves, and the birds dot the skies like shooting stars. It's almost impossible to get to unless you are able to climb, jump, or fly (which an unfortunate amount of people are able to do here).

It’s one of the base’s precious few blind spots, safe from cameras and that intrusive AI. Oftentimes, Hanzo finds himself here after a quick trip to the kitchen for some perfectly brewed tea before he became more acquainted with the organization’s residents.

Today, he sits here with his terribly cheap, bitter tea, sipping it more out of comfort than for taste. 

It really shouldn’t stay on his mind for as long as it did, but the lack of peppers in his dish is something he can’t get ignore or dismiss.

To say that it unnerved him is an understatement.

For an assassin, a detail like this could mean life or death. It's a sign that he's being observed far more closely than he would prefer, and it's a weakness that can be used against him. 

There was a survey when he first arrived, asking if he had any allergies or dislikes. All of them were left blank—if he was being fed for free, there’s no reason for him to be picky about his meals. 

But when was the last time he had eaten peppers? He had wracked his brain, trying to remember all of his previous meals. 

His first meal here was katsudon with miso soup. The following meals were seafood, rice or pasta, but nothing stands out (except that lemon chicken stuffed with risotto, that was worth remembering if only for it's interesting execution). All he could really remember are the late night desserts—a single pan-fried red bean cake, jam cookies, lemon cookies, a scoop of ice-cream, a sliver of dense but decadent cheesecake. 

Maybe it’s _because_ it was absent that it never crossed his mind, and he never ate often enough with anyone else to notice when it was missing. Not until recently anyway. 

Dinner is the same. He could've passed it off as a lucky guess or a coincidence or a forgetful mind, but not during dinner. 

It was pepper steak. With no peppers. The taste was there, that acrid, bitter tang on his tongue, but he was spared from eating any of it. McCree and Pharah, on the other hand, had extra heapings, eating it like it was delicious.

But as far as his recent memory can recall, not once did he ever eat anything here that had peppers. So _how_ did you reach this conclusion? 

Hanzo takes in a lungful of salty air. 

Maybe it was his face. Or something common in all people who hate peppers. A look about them, perhaps. Similarly to how he could tell when someone is left-handed or right-handed, or whether they’d be an easy mark or not. Maybe you had the same understanding in your programming. Maybe there's a specific algorithm for people who hate them, or maybe—

“So _this_ is where you have been all this time.”

Hanzo inclines his head to the side—“Genji.”—keeping his eyes out toward the sea. 

It’s an unspoken invitation to sit which Genji takes with a ridiculous grace that he wouldn’t never expected from the younger brother he once knew. (The Genji he knew would’ve just plopped down, no grace or any finesse at all.) 

He does his best to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that pools in his stomach and crawls up his skin.

“Brother, have you become more familiar with Overwatch?” 

Hanzo still isn’t sure if he prefers to be called ‘brother’ or if he prefers ‘Hanzo’ coming from Genji. Neither seemed appropriate. The mechanical timbre is difficult to associate with the loud, reckless young man that Hanzo had to chase after in his youth (and then force him to sit in _seiza_ while lecturing him). 

His eyes drop down to the tea cup in his hand, the steeping teabag obscuring his reflection. 

Since coming to Overwatch, there are several things that Hanzo required adjustment to. 

Firstly, he realized his world is vastly different from the other agents’. 

Hanzo understands that his life is different from the average person's, he knows this almost too well. No two person’s life is the same, not by any stretch of the word, but there was something that connected the other Overwatch agents in a way that he could not even begin to comprehend. (This is also one of the reasons why he feels closer to the Junkers and Satya than the rest.)

The difference did not become more apparent than when he went on his first group mission. 

He had argued nearly every step of the way because Soldier: 76, the team’s acting leader, had planned a mission tactic that was a clear inefficient use of manpower—it would take far longer than necessary for a mission of this magnitude and runs the risk of being caught too soon. The hardened vigilante did not budge on any of his decisions. Even Hana, normally so rebellious and outspoken, only has a few snide remarks, but no outright opposition to Soldier: 76's tactics. 

It leads to him grumbling on the plane, strapped in next to Hana who only half-listened to his griping. 

"Why do you not argue his plans? You must also know that if we all gather at point C, it would increase the risk of being ambushed.”

Hana popped her gum nonchalantly with a gaze in her eyes that make him question the true age of this young woman. "Because," she said slowly, "he's the leader right now. What he says, goes." 

"But there is a better way," he insisted. "If we drop each one of us at regular intervals between point C and E—" 

"He is the leader." 

"His plan takes too much time! It is not a proper method—"

A hard hand claps over his shoulder and he barely stopped himself from flipping that person over. Though, looking at whose wrist he grabbed out of instinct, he doubted it would go down so smoothly. 

Zarya gives him a smirk and sits down beside him. 

"You hear what he says, yes? We are all soldiers now. We must act like soldiers. Soldiers do not question their commanders or their leaders." 

Hanzo has an insult at the ready in his mouth, a nasty retort about the Russian woman's homeland and its leader's current state of affairs, but the stinging of his shoulder keeps him from being unnecessarily callous. Especially not when this woman could knock the breath out of him without even intending to. He settled for some incoherent grumbling that had Hana smiling at him the whole time. 

Though, it’s with begrudging reluctance that he admits the mission went off without a hitch under Soldier: 76’s strict instruction. Hanzo still insists it could’ve been done much faster if they had followed his suggestions instead. 

(He doesn’t hate the old soldier. The man reminds him too much of his father—authoritative with that exact tone of voice that will not yield to anyone who back-talks him. It almost makes him feel like a little boy again. But perhaps, that’s why he’s so reluctant to accept the fact that Soldier was right.)

There is a lot more communication that he’s used to; he was forced to check in with everyone when he’s used to staying silent—his ears ring with the residual orders of the silver-haired soldier long after he’s taken out his earpiece. They were split into teams, coordinating with each other and taking their sweet time to secure the target. All of this is outside of Hanzo’s comfort zone; he prefers working alone, taking his victories alone, securing his superiority by his lonesome. 

It's through this mission that he realizes how different his life was—again, he knows the difference between himself and an ordinary person, but between assassin and military. There is a distinct difference in their discipline. When Soldier: 76 tells them to jump, there is no question that Hanzo would follow his orders, but not without a fuss. Hana and Zarya (among others) would do it without question because soldiers do not question their commanding officers. 

Soldiers are not supposed to think. They must follow orders lest it get the whole squad or battalion killed. 

Assassins must be thinking at all times. They are given free reign over a mission and are expected to take the best and quickest form of action with minimal instruction. 

Everyone surrounding him was or is military. They all received the same type of instruction, something that he’s far removed from. He hasn’t gone on a mission with Genji yet, something he’s both grateful for and anxious, but he has no doubt that if he were to see him now, Genji would also exhibit hints of the same behavior. 

Here, he is not in control, but in that same vein, he does not need to be in control. 

Truthfully, it’s both irritating and comforting.

Speaking of irritating…

Another aspect of military life he does not quite have a taste for, literally: MREs, IMPs, ration packs, or whatever you want to call them. 

Sometimes, there is no restaurants nearby or any time to go out and grab any food during a lengthy mission. Granted, he’s only been on two of these—both were stakeouts. 

Hanzo has done stakeouts before—an assassin’s job requires close monitoring of a target’s habits. He had long learned to carry odorless, easy to consume foods: onigiri, jelly-pouch drinks, bread. Now he has to accustom himself to the strange prepackaged crackers, dry meats that he’s supposed to warm up with a heat pack, and shitty desserts that makes him wish he were back at the base or in Japan where he had access to a _conbini_. 

The disgust he feels each time he’s handed a ration pack does not escape anyone’s notice. (He’s teased about it by several people, and tolerates it from even less, vowing to save an arrow for each of them. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t start to have nightmares about the drab brown packages and its unappetizing contents.) 

However, the other members do not seem as adverse to it, even making comments about the packaging and cheerfully gossiping about how their rations are much different in their respective countries.  
It makes the after-mission meals back at the base something to look forward to. (He’ll even tolerate the ridiculous amounts of butter you slather onto their meals if only to eat something that looks and feels like it hasn’t been chewed up and spat out by a bird.) 

Whenever a team returns from a mission, fresh food would already be prepared for them, piping hot and waiting no matter the time as if you already know when they'll return. Regardless of how tired he is, he’ll always force himself to trudge to the kitchen for a meal. Though, he prefers to have his meal alone and after a hot shower, he will eat his fill to make up for the sad excuse for rations he was forced to eat during his mission and possibly contribute to the strain of an already thin budget. 

Budget—money—is another thing that he cannot get a satisfactory answer for.

Overwatch is a defunct organization that is outlawed all across the world. Anyone caught operating under the guise of Overwatch or supporting it could find themselves in a very, very uncomfortable position. It goes without saying that monetary help is also illegal. 

So, it’s certainly a surprise to Hanzo when Winston—something else he has to get used to—gave him access to a private bank account with credits in it. The numbers on one of the many computer screens show the exact amount allocated to him. 

“Sorry it’s so little,” Winston said as he rubbed the back of his head, “it’s all we can offer at the moment. It takes a lot to run everything.” 

“You have _money_ to give us?” 

“Well, uhm, you guys need to be rewarded in some way, right? Think of it as a salary for yourselves.”

Hanzo flipped the card back and forth; the numbers on it shone in the dim light. It’s not as though he does not have any spending money for himself—he’s completed enough ‘jobs’ in the past ten years to sustain himself, and he’s sure that the other members are the same. (Not that he would ever tell anyone that—especially not Genji; he likes to have a positive balance on his accounts.) 

“Where does this money come from?” He waved the card. “Surely the UN is not so incompetent as to miss any of Overwatch’s accounts.” 

It’s fascinating to watch the gorilla’s fur rise up in alarm. Winston fumbled with his glasses, wiping them on his shirt as he speaks. “No. No, Overwatch’s assets were all seized during the…shutdown years ago. This money comes from donors heard about the Recall and who still believe in what we do.” 

Hanzo’s eyebrows rose up. “’Donors who heard about the Recall’?” 

“Yes.” Winston cleared his throat. “I understand that your skepticism of our current financial sources, but rest assured, we—we have it all taken care of. Nothing to worry about.”

He gave a poor attempt at an assuring grin. 

“You are certain these ‘donors’ are trustworthy?”

For a second, the grin faltered. “Ab—absolutely. Athena has it all covered, no problems here!” 

Hanzo did not need to be a master assassin or have experience as an older brother to know that Winston was hiding something important. This entire situation is suspect, and something in the back of his mind itches to know _what_ , but he nodded slowly, pretending to understand. 

The logo of the AI blinked innocently behind Winston. He doesn’t know how powerful it is, but it must not be any minor program if the international community has not yet come down upon them like a tidal wave. 

Hanzo Shimada is confident in his ability to evade the law—he’s done it for a decade already and considers himself a little more seasoned than the rest. However, even he has no such confidence (not that he would ever say that out loud) about evading the entire world’s police force. (It would be a fun challenge worthy of his time, but he’s not particularly fond of fearing for his life at every waking and sleeping moment with little to no safe place in the world.) 

Still, it’s another thing he adds onto his list of things to think about when he’s not sleeping, and another reason to feel that this new Overwatch is a fawn still new to its own feet (and that coming here was quite possibly a _mistake_ ). 

“I am adjusting fine,” Hanzo says finally.

Genji gives him a long, long stare, indicative of his disbelief. Hanzo pointedly ignores the unvoiced accusation. 

“Really?” 

So much for unvoiced. 

“Yes.”

He brings the tea cup to his mouth, taking the slowest sip ever if only to subtly indicate his loss of interest in the conversation. He tries not to cringe at the temperature or taste. 

“And everyone treating you well?”

A small flare of irritation skitters across his skin. What is Genji trying to get at?

He is a grown man capable of managing his own personal affairs. He does not need Genji looking after him like some nosy mother-in-law. Since when did Genji give a shit about his relations with other people?

(Previously, it would be Hanzo who would interrogate Genji on his choice of company, demanding that he choose his friends and trysts carefully, to which it falls on deaf ears.)

“Fine,” he grunts. 

Even as he says that, he remembers that his first few days here were less than comfortable. He does not know how much any of the agents knew about his and Genji’s past, but he could pick out the ones who knew from those who didn't at a glance. 

There is a decided coldness that is beyond the normal medical professionalism that the blonde doctor addresses him with (“So _you_ are Mr. Hanzo Shimada. I have heard a lot about you,”); a careful trepidation from the overly-enthusiastic time-traveler (he still doesn't know how that works or how that's possible, but he knows better than to ask); a particular _look_ in the eyes of the overly large crusader—something akin to pity or a deep sorrow; and other things like furtive glances or irritating whispering that he tries to ignore in favor of familiar solitude. 

He can deny it all he wants, but the scornful attention pricked and stabbed at something softer inside he thought he had cast away long ago.

It’s only with people like Hana, Satya, Roadhog, or even Omnics like Bastion that he is even the slightest bit at ease. They do not know his past or seem to care. It helps that he cannot understand the omnic. There’s also you, who just does the job that you’re assigned: cooking. You do not engage in unnecessary conversation or judge him for what he has done, and that’s already much better than half the agents he’s met. 

“I heard that you beat Jesse’s high score in simulation 12.” 

Genji’s shift in topic is a welcome one and Hanzo scoffs, a touch prideful in his new accomplishment. (He’d never tell anyone, but it took him nearly two weeks to do so.)

Genji continues, “He’s been complaining about it.” 

“He is loud, and talks too much nonsense. He should put his money where his mouth is.” 

Sure, McCree is talkative, but he speaks a lot of nothing for someone who knows so much. The words out of this man’s mouth are honeyed poison; a trap for unsuspecting prey. If anything, Hanzo only trusts the man’s aim, having been saved by it once before and seen it in action many more. Beating his score was a sweet victory that he’s sure he’ll get the pleasure of doing so again. 

High scores in many of the simulations never remain the same for long, and the mere thought of it whets his appetite for competition. 

“If he is not enough of a challenge, perhaps you should try to beat Ana-san’s score in simulation 7.” 

At that, Hanzo pulls a face of disgruntlement. Genji laughs, the tinny edge barely tainting the familiarity of the sound. A bit of nostalgia wells up in his chest and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“There is no need to feel ashamed. Everyone has been trying to beat it for a long time. You are not the first to try.” 

The score is not the reason, but he lets him think it anyway. “Hmph.” 

“Maybe you should ask her for advice. You talk with Ana-san a lot, do you not?” 

“ _She_ talks to me.” Running a hand over his face, he admits quietly, “It is...difficult to refuse her.” 

The cyborg nods sagely. “I don’t think there is anyone who would say no to her, not even the chef.” 

The image of the sniper’s afternoon tea time and cookies come to mind. Buttery, like everything else the chef makes, but still warm and melts in his mouth. It’s only slightly sweet, occasionally accented with a dollop of jam. It is not an option on the menu and, from what he’s heard from the other agents, impossible to get. 

But then, he remembers the woman’s back at the window, loudly demanding that you leave your fortress. To date, she has not been successful. 

More cookies for him, then. Though, he doesn’t think it’ll make a difference, omnics don’t eat. 

He unconsciously looks at Genji from the corner of his eye. His jaw tightens. 

“The chef has refused her before,” he says tersely. 

“And let me guess, the chef has refused you, too.” 

Hanzo does not dignify that with an answer.

“Maybe you should try to be more friendly. The chefs were always kind to me.” 

“Chefs?” There’s more than one of you? 

“Hm? Oh yes, there used to be many.” Genji leans back, a little more relaxed in his posture as he drifts off to the years that Hanzo does not know of. “They were a rowdy bunch, but they were all very nice people. They were very...considerate of me when I first joined hands with Overwatch.” Then, quietly: “I am very grateful to them.”

This time, Hanzo really can’t suppress the guilt that grips him like a vice and threatens to squeeze the life out of him. He wants to just get up and throw himself off this ledge, if only to end the anguish this conversation brings. 

But he’s a bigger person than he was several months ago. He forces himself to sit there and take it. 

“You should say 'thank you,’ at least. It's good manners.”

“I don't want _you_ of all people to lecture me on manners.” 

Genji doesn’t need to take off his mask for Hanzo read his facial expression: disapproving, one eyebrow raised with a cheeky frown. “Brother. It is good manners to thank the people who feed you. Would it kill you to be polite?” 

Instead, he asks with an accusing edge to his voice, “So you have been watching me?” 

Guilty as charged, Genji puts his hands up. “I had to make sure you did not kill the chef for putting something you disliked in your food. Like peppers.” 

There’s a smug rise in Genji’s voice as he watches Hanzo’s face shift from one of irritation to one of realization. 

If there had ever been _any_ doubt about Genji’s relation to him, all of that went out the window. 

“So it was _you_.”

Genji laughs, loud and obnoxious, nudging him with an elbow. “Were you perhaps worried that the chef can read your mind?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” _Yes_. 

There’s a smile in Genji’s voice that’s almost infectious. “I’m sure Chef would have noticed eventually. The Head Chef trained everyone to do that. So, I am sure even if I said nothing, you wouldn't have to suffer for long. You are in good hands here.” 

He doubts it especially with the way Overwatch currently operates—there are still too many questions left unanswered and too many things that do not make any sense. 

Like: “Why is it forbidden to enter the kitchens?” 

There is a silence that is taken up by the screech of gulls that he swears is mocking him for even asking such a foolish question.

Before he could even retract it, Genji laughs, a little depreciating and somehow nostalgic. 

“I should have expected you to be curious about it.” At Hanzo’s frown, he says, “I heard there is a great treasure kept inside that kitchen.”

That immediately piqued his interest. “A treasure? In a kitchen?” He shakes his head. “Don’t be absurd.” 

Genji shrugs. “Many Blackwatch agents have attempted to enter. None have succeeded. Jesse may know more. He has tried to go inside many times without success.”

“The cowboy?” 

“You should not try. Otherwise, you may find peppers in your food.” 

Hanzo shoves at Genji with an annoyed (but fond) huff, nearly throwing him off the ledge. Genji shoves back. 

“Bring it.” 

The two brothers begin a strange game of trying to shove the other off the ledge, choked laughter and cursing breaking out between them—only to stop when Hanzo’s tea cup pitches over the precarious landing and straight into the smashing seas below. 

“Chef. Chef, Agent Hanzo is here to order. Chef. Agent Hanzo is here to order.”

You snort and your leg spasms as you are immediately awoken by Athena’s announcement. Almost robotically, you get out of bed and slip on your uniform hanging from your door with practiced ease. It doesn’t occur to you that it’s four in the morning and you’ve only slept for a little under three hours, having stayed up to babysit some broth and edit ledgers. By the time you make it out of your quarters and enter the kitchen, Hanzo’s order is already posted on all the screens. 

_Sencha._

Without skipping a beat, you grab a kettle and fill it up, flicking on the stove on your way to grab the tea. In one smooth motion, you swipe the container, a teapot, a cup, open the drawer, grab the spoon to measure—it is pure muscle memory that drives you. You’re not entirely aware of your actions until you’ve slipped the tray into the window, ring the bell, and start to walk away, determined to get another hour of sleep before breakfast has to be made for the early risers. 

“…thank you.”

It’s so quiet, you almost miss it, but even when you hear it, it takes a moment to register that this is the first time Agent Hanzo has said anything to you. 

You rush back to the window to answer, awake now. But he’s gone. You bend down to get a peek at the cafeteria, which has gone dark again. 

The words, “You’re welcome,” remain stuck in your throat, struggling to escape but without a proper direction.

Maybe you could still catch him?

“Athena! Cameras.”

The screens fill with the man walking down the hall, tray in hand. That’s not the path to the dorms. You watch intently as he makes a turn and the cameras switch to the common area. 

“Ah.”

You press your fingers to your forehead. Damn, if you knew Agent D.Va was going to partake, you would’ve made something quick. They could share it and use it as a conversation point and find out their similarities and differences in tastes. Though, judging by the way she welcomes him onto the seat beside him and points to the screen with excitement shows that they already have something in common. 

The thought gnaws at you. Nourishing the soul and fostering camaraderie between agents is the job of a chef, too. It would be very, very wrong to interrupt even to bring them food (that you’re supposed to be keeping very careful control of). 

‘Who’s going to know?’ a voice whispers in the back of your mind. 

Athena because she’s always watching. Then Agent Winston because he is in constant communication with Athena. Then Captain Amari because that woman is sharper than your knives. Then everyone else because that’s the way it is. 

The two sit side by side, talking at ease and gesturing at the game. There is a softness to the man’s eyes that is normally hidden by day, and a vulnerable ease around the normally fierce MEKA driver. It felt a little strange to be looking at a scene that looked like it was meant more for a family than an organization of illegal vigilantes. 

“Thank you, Athena. Please turn it off.”

Maybe you can make it up to them another time. 

If Agent Hanzo or Agent D.Va end up receiving desserts with their next orders, you can say nothing. Except now, the archer will slip a quiet ‘thank you’ that you’re somehow always too slow or too busy to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo is literally the least reliable narrator ever.  
> 
>
>> _Conbini_ \- Convenience stores
> 
> Thank you all for your kind comments and support. 


	5. Chapter 5

_Click._

“—efforts are being made to curtail money-laundering in previously unregulated financial institutions in Europe as the EU passes stricter policies—”

_Click._

“—tonight, musical sensation, Lúcio Correia dos Santos! Coming at you live fro—”

_Click._

“—you. This year’s Olympics will be held in—”

_Click._

“—oday, I have with me the esteemed General Manager and head chef of the high-class charity restaurant, Cœur d'Artic—”

_Click._

“—OOOAAALLL!! He lands it! He nails it! Seventeen years after the legend—”

_Click._

“—year’s United States presidential election will be excit—”

_Click._

Hanzo closes the window and shuts off the comm, placing it neatly onto his nightstand where all his other trinkets like spare arrowheads are kept. It was nice of Overwatch to trust him with a private room. He’s sure it’s in no small part thanks to Genji’s interference. 

The Watchpoint offers very little entertainment outside of simulations and the games that D.Va brings. Electricity is being rationed carefully and going outside is not recommended lest they all be recognized or caught trying to sneak back onto the base. (Though, necessity dictates that they leave occasionally to pick up basic supplies.) Many of the former Overwatch agents are grouped together in private meetings behind closed doors that he couldn’t possibly even _attempt_ to listen to with all of his cunning, but he is not so invested in Overwatch’s mission that he cares to know. Though, rumors of Overwatch’s resurgence is thick on the internet, and that may be reason enough for the lack of missions and the increased secrecy. 

It gives Hanzo time to attempt to meditate, check his equipment, and train to his heart’s content (up until he gets angry enough that he is unable to beat any further high scores), or be swallowed by the lingering doubts in his mind that insist quite loudly that coming to Overwatch was a mistake when he thinks of the secrets steadily piling up, brick by brick. But he is expected to be a soldier, and soldiers do not question their superiors. 

(He’s not supposed to question his elders either, but he knows exactly where that would lead him and Hanzo Shimada does not appreciate being burnt _twice_.)

Days pass since his impromptu meeting with Genji, and Hanzo is definitely not bored and does not linger in the cafeteria during and after his meals under the guise of digesting, staring at the sliver of space in the wall that gives him the barest insight into the inner workings of the kitchen. 

He cannot be sure of the interior layout. If he angles his head a certain way that makes him look like one of his assassination targets whose neck has been snapped or a horror movie victim and squints, he can perhaps see a little more of the kitchen—some hanging pans, maybe an island counter. 

Throughout this whole time, however, Hanzo has only been able to observe a uniformed torso moving back and forth and little else. That limitation is also in no small part thanks to the people who insists on stopping by the window and insist on speaking to you. There couldn’t possibly be anything interesting to discuss with a cook. 

His extended stay does catch the attention of other agents who take it upon themselves to speak to him, hindering his half-hearted efforts even more. The wiser ones keep their distance as they always do. That’s perfectly fine with him—they no longer look at him with such open scrutiny that it bothers him anymore. 

It’s quickly concluded that distant observation is a pointless tactic, and he promised himself that he is not at all invested in finding out specifically what type of treasures lay in the belly of Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s kitchen. It is just an innocent pastime, one of the Watchpoint’s lesser mysteries without much at stake. 

What if it’s piles of gold? 

Vintage cars? 

Caviar?

Golden cookware? 

He snorts before taking in a sip of tea. 'It is a _kitchen_ ,’ he scolds himself, 'how valuable can this treasure truly be?’ 

He continually tells himself this, but he makes no moves to rectify his lingering presence in the mess hall. 

Perhaps it is a secret weapon of sorts like those villains in those cartoons he watched as a child. 

Or a secret lair. 

With a mecha. 

Hanzo’s head snaps up at the thought. Now that would be interesting. But he laughs into his tea, feeling the slightest bit ridiculous. That sort of thing would be in the hanger, not beneath a kitchen. But the days of speculation drag on and the itch becomes a full-on ache that makes his fingers twitch and urges his blood to run. 

The only way to stem this is to find out exactly what’s inside. Athena has already made it clear she’s watching, and it wouldn’t do for him to be without information. And Genji’s already given him the first hint. He just needs to act on it. 

Patience, he tells himself. There is no need to be hasty for something so inconsequential.

But in trying to discreetly solve this mystery throughout the past few days, he becomes keenly aware of other information. Like the fact that Genji stops by the cafeteria often.

Most times, he stops by and rings the service bell that’s hidden just behind the the edge of the sill to summon you, leaning into the window and striking up idle conversation. It almost reminds him of the different times he has caught Genji doing some illicit activities that the elders of the clans would never approve of (flirting with people while they work, usually). He tries not to listen like he used to; it is surely private and his brother is not about to shame anyone, and that endeavor is made easier by the fact that he actually cannot hear anything distinct—just garbled noise. 

But just as he notices Genji’s increased presence over the past few days, Genji notices him, too. His brother today forgoes disturbing you and takes a seat across from him. 

“Enjoying the food, brother?” There is a teasing in Genji’s mechanical voice that Hanzo tries to resist rolling his eyes at. 

He looks down at the remnants of his most recent meal—wide, flat pasta swimming a white sauce, marinated shrimp that was just a bit spicy and mushrooms—that was no more than just an oil stain with cream on his plate. The thought of how much _butter_ he actually ate makes him a little queasy, but he tries not to think too hard about it and tries not to think of the minor pains he'll have to deal with later for having consumed so much dairy.

“It is fatty.” 

Genji laughs, slapping his knee twice. A twitch goes off in the corner of Hanzo’s lips. How nostalgic. 

“Well, Chef _is_ French-trained. But there were many different chefs in the kitchen, and in turn, many to learn from.”

That would explain the wide range of dessert. 

“But do you find it to be to your liking? You were always picky about your food.” 

“I am not picky,” he insists even at the risk of sounding like a child. “I just have more sophisticated tastes than yours.” 

“Well, I’m sure you have more taste than I do now—”

Hanzo opens his mouth to answer—

And realization strikes him like blow to the chest that has him reeling. It forces him him onto his feet, everything screaming at him to run away lest the demons of his past knock him down, paralyze him, and consume him from the legs up. 

Time stops for a tick.

—“ _Forget the mission, brother, what do you think we’re having for dinner today?_ ”—

Genji also seems to have realized his faux pas.

—“ _Brother, I don’t want to eat my beansprouts,_ you _eat them!_ ”—

The room is a vacuum of deaden emotion.

—“ _Come on, try it! This salty watermelon drink is the best!_ ”—

Genji dares look Hanzo in the face.

—“ _Ugh, I can’t believe I just ate all that; brother, if your shitty curry kills me, I’ll haunt you._ ”—

Time moves again and Hanzo makes a mad dash out of the cafeteria, face pinched and whiter than the sheets they sleep on. 

「 _Shit_.」Genji jumps up and gives chase, the last of the yellow ribbon already out of sight. “Hanzo! Brother—wait!”

It would be a lie to say that no one was watching this exchange, and that it’s not quietly discussed behind closed doors by nosier agents. 

Hanzo no longer lingers in the cafeteria in the following days. 

###### 

You stare blankly at the half-eaten tray left behind at the service window, a little dumbfounded. There have been more of this behavior lately. 

Your first reaction is to be annoyed at Soldier: 76, but you remember that he hasn't ordered anything in the past day—another worrying issue that you need to address. Your brow furrows as you try to remember who ordered recently.

No one comes to mind. The last person to order dinner did so hours ago. 

“Athena. Did you see who left this?” 

The chime of the AI’s voice is steady as she reports, “Agent Hanzo returned the tray at 21:40. His behavior seemed...erratic during the past week.”

The fact that he left his tray like this—food still in it and several hours after he ordered it—is enough to validate Athena’s concerns. 

You bring the tray in, careful to preserve the scene, and take out your notepad from your apron. “Erratic, how?” 

“Agent Hanzo has been visiting the cafeteria less frequently after an increase in time spent here. His average visits have decreased from 42 minutes to merely 17.” 

“Is that 17 because he has to wait?” 

“Correct. Three minutes to order, and an approximate fifteen minutes wait. He has been returning to his room to eat.” 

You shake your head, marking down that your time has slowed. Being here without the rush of lunch service and the like have made you complacent, rusty. If this were the old Overwatch, this would be considered unacceptable. (But then again, the old Overwatch had many more agents and a much higher turnover of food, so individual portions didn’t have to be made.) 

“Thank you. Send me everyone’s average wait times later, will you?” 

“That is no issue. I will compile and have it sent when it is completed.” 

You take the time to record everything that Agent Hanzo had eaten and left uneaten. It’s perturbing to see a man who eats so well to the point of asking for seconds leave food behind. A cold feeling taps against your back.

Maybe your cooking has been lacking?

Doubt sinks its claws into you, pulling itself up to your ear to whisper taunts and jeers. You try to shake it off, repeating that no other agent has changed habits. You need to believe in your skills—it would be an insult to the people who taught you everything otherwise.

You force yourself to move past that thought—it must be something specific to Agent Hanzo. 

Maybe he’s ill? 

If he’s ill, you need to change the menu to suit him better.

“Athena. Could I get Agent Hanzo’s basic medical records?” 

There is a pause and then the screens above you are filled with data that does not indicate that the archer may be in any way impaired or could otherwise explain his poor appetite. 

You tap the pen against your lip.

Maybe it’s a change in his mental state? 

Did something happen to him? 

There was a bit of a clamor in the cafeteria some time ago. Was it today? Yesterday? The day before? Was it related to him?

Your stomach tingles painfully, reminding you to appease it with either food or medicine before you concern yourself with someone else.

“Chef, I do recommend you speak to Doctor Zielger about your current condition,” Athena chimes, right on cue. You stare at the ceiling where you know one of her sensors are sitting. “Your condition has been in steady decline since your return, and as overseer of all of Overwatch, I do recommend you keep yourself in good health.” 

You bite the inside of your lip, breathing deeply to try to push down the pain as though it could be hidden from Athena’s scrutiny.

“Thank you for your concern, Athena,” you say carefully. “However, I understand that Madame Zielger is busy, so I won’t bother her with something so small. It’s been diagnosed and I’m managing it.” 

She sounds absolutely unsympathetic and very much human when she says, “I very much doubt that, Chef.” 

You grit your teeth to prevent yourself from being overly snappish with her. It’s her responsibility to be concerned. It’s nothing personal. “I will do better. Can I ask you to stop surveillance in the kitchen?”

“I would not recommend that, Chef. If anything were to happen to you, we would not be able to assist.” 

Leaning back against the counter, you consider her words carefully. Your own condition is nothing you can’t handle or anything that would incapacitate you to the point that you can’t seek help. Her constant reminders only serve to perpetuate a problem that you are very aware of and will handle when you have the time to do so.

Firmly, you order, “I would like surveillance turned off inside the kitchen going forward.” 

Hesitation dots her voice as she answers, “Understood, Chef. However, to ensure compliance with security protocol, I have informed Winston that the kitchen has become a blind-spot for the organization.” 

You take the elder Shimada’s tray to the dishwashing area and start cleaning everything to avoid voicing your protests to what is essentially a threat from the AI. 

Rules are rules. It would do well to follow them, but it is an unnecessary precaution. There is no one to monitor but yourself, and no one will enter the kitchen—no one has, not since the old days. It’s not something you should worry about. And if Winston has an issue with it, you hope that you’ll be able to ease any concerns he has. 

Besides, who would bother coming in here anyway except for thieves?

You smile wryly to yourself as you soap up the plates and scrub until everything is clean. There’s no need to use the industrial dishwasher beside you—there isn’t enough of a mess for it. 

“Sorry, Bethy, another time,” you murmur, patting the large machine, affectionately named “Bethesda” by previous members of the kitchen staff. It does not react, indifferent in its idleness.

You put everything back in its place and dry your hands on your apron. 

“Okay, Athena, back to business.” You pluck a stale piece of burnt toast that didn’t quite make its way through morning service from a plate you had set aside this morning. “Stats, please.” 

The familiar numbers of calories and names populate the screens, Soldier: 76 still at the top of the list. A heavy sigh echoes off the tiled walls. 

You tap your pen against your lips and scribble down the rankings while chewing through the toast. Another person you have to be concerned for.

Idly, you’re sure that Agent Soldier: 76 would’ve loved to have this for breakfast—whenever you serve it, he returns his tray with the toast gone and everything else half-eaten, but since he hasn’t been eating well, you had to limit his options to something packed full of nutrients in small dishes. You take several bites of the bread, crumbs dropping everywhere.

You need to pick your battles where you could. The silver-haired man lost far too many calories in too short of a time period and refuses to eat enough to balance it. While Agent Hanzo’s appetite and behavior is concerning, Agent Soldier: 76’s was even more so. It’s abnormal and terrifying.

The only people you’ve seen with this sort of metabolism rate were long dead. Though, through the grapevine, you’ve heard that it may not be so (especially since the long-thought-dead Agent Ana showed her face around the base). If it were true, you’d like to be able to cook for them again, just for old times sake. 

Though, Commander Reyes was never the type to let other people cook for him.

You laugh to yourself at the memories of Commander Gabriel Reyes bursting through the kitchen doors. It would scare all the newcomers who have learned that non-kitchen personnel were strictly forbidden from entering the space, and annoy veterans who feel insulted that their cooking is so unsatisfactory that the customer has to come inside and do it himself. 

But Head Chef Richard would always greet him warmly with two kisses to each cheek and a hug that may linger for a little too long to be considered customary. He’d personally cook for Reyes, taking over the dishes he has already started in between friendly bantering.

It was…

You look around the kitchen slowly, eyes lingering at the different stations.

Maybe tomorrow you can make _arroz con pollo_ —chicken rice—just the way Commander Reyes taught. You pause yourself for a moment—Agent Symmetra would be opposed to the conflicting textures and Agent Hanzo would be angry if there were peppers. Agent D.Va would like it extra spicy to the point of pain, and while Agent Reinhardt insists he can eat anything you throw at him, you know you should keep his intake of fats and oils to a minimum, and Agent McCree…

Your breath hitches just a bit. 

McCree— _Jesse_. 

Blackwatch. 

Reyes.

Tamales.

You slowly rest your arms onto the counter, eyes fixated on the words of your notes, but not reading them. That’s right. Have you been so busy that you forgot? Tamales. If there were more people in the kitchen, you would’ve liked to make tamales, too. 

Commander Reyes always did like making them, recruiting the entire kitchen force into producing mountains of them, and tossing the tamales at his crew at inopportune moments. Before larger missions, he would stay up in the kitchen, wrapping those corn husks and waiting for them to steam before he would distribute them to his people as emergency rations. You were sure the Overwatch agents were envious. 

Those tamales quickly became an inside joke: an illegal tamales trade between the kitchen and the Blackwatch agents. They’d be used as bargaining chips or currency in exchange for various tasks. Those days were extremely lively, especially since none of the tamales were ever marked, allowing for some more mischievous chefs to add something a little extra to them. (Commander Reyes would force the unfortunate person to eat the whole thing anyway or do it himself, insisting that food should not be wasted, only to gargle a mouthful of milk later on.) 

If you made them, would Agent McCree enjoy them or…?

You cover your mouth, a choked noise dying into your hand, even though there’s no one around to hear it. You inhale a shaky breath and close your eyes, a comfortable sting lingering in them. 

“Inspection!” 

The pen flips out of your hand and lands on the floor with a clatter. 

As though it were a spell, you’re running for the bright red buckets that line the prep area, slam-dunking your half-eaten toast into a trash bin. You pull out a wet rag from the bucket, wring it, desperately cleaning everything in sight, shoving what few stray scraps into strategically placed garbage cans as you passed, mumbling, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit._ ”

It’s not until you hear rambunctious laughter from the service window that you realize there’s no inspection happening. The rag hits a counter with a wet, angry “ _shlap_ ”. 

You stalk over to the window, your frown hidden by the partition while McCree has himself a grand old time, slapping the flat of the sill with his hand. Your stomach rolls violently with your mood.

“Did you need something, Agent McCree?” The ice in your voice could freeze lava, but Jesse has gotten worse from scarier people. 

“Sorry, Chef. Just wanted t’make sure you’re alive in there.” 

“I am doing well, thank you,” you answer stiffly. Is everyone on your case today? “If you do not need anything, I warn you to not do that again.” 

“But I do need somethin’, Chef.” 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “If it is an order, please use the terminals—”

“I need t’be straight with me, Chef. You’ve been hidin’ from us.” Your spine stiffens. “I ain’t seen your face in years; you’re not even gonna try to bring me lunch like you used to?” 

The sudden shift in tone stuns you, and the question even more so. It brings back burning memories of all the rules you broke when you first started here, of the illicit activities that got you into more trouble than you could recall, the foolish implications and the camaraderie between yourself and several of the Blackwatch agents—

Your answer is sterile: “The kitchens must be staffed at all times, Agent McCree, I—”

“And y’don’t have to speak so damn formal to me— _Agent McCree._ ” You could swear he rolls his eyes. “You know me. You've been acting all stand-offish since you got here. Come on, look me in the eyes and tell me we’re strangers. I dare ya.” 

You look around around, checking for any signs that the two of you might not be alone (even though no one’s been in the kitchen in ages) and you’ve just asked Athena to turn off monitoring. There should be no one watching you be unprofessional. 

With a heaving sigh, you bend down, fixing the cowboy with a tired glare. 

“Hello...Jesse.”

“Good to see you again, dishwasher.” He grins brightly as a scowl—almost a pout—crosses your face. 

“I am a chef now.” 

“Y’certainly don’t look the part.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” 

He gives you an incredulous look. “You crazy? Have y’looked in a mirror recently? I reckon you haven’t been sleepin’ _or_ eatin’.” 

You open your mouth to retort, but close it, thinking better of it. 

It’s always exhausting arguing with Jesse, whose silver tongue is so refined, he could talk his way into almost anything. (Besides, he’s right. You know you look like a damn mess. It’s not like there’s anyone around to criticize your appearance, anyway.) The best thing to do is to just accept it. 

With a shuddering breath, you confess quietly, “No, not really.”

Admittedly, it’s been a busy time for you since you’ve volunteered your services for the newly recalled Overwatch. There were many more things to manage now, and so many people to stay in contact with, ledgers to update, orders to place and review, and so many things to update, and—your well-being was never high on the priority list. Not that you’ll ever admit it to Athena or to anyone else. 

Jesse voice turns softer. “Why don’t you rest your eyes? Ain’t no one here but me.” 

A moment’s hesitation turns into two, then three. You exhale deeply. 

“Ten minutes.”

“Make it thirty, and you got yerself a deal.”

You look around one more time, taking note of the time (23:31). 

“Pass me a barstool?” 

He chuckles. “What, ain’t got no chairs in there?” But he leaves anyway. In the meantime, you grab the previously abandoned rag and wipe down the service window. 

The ex-Blackwatch agent returns, passing the stool precariously through the opening in the wall and you bite back a laugh when the smell of bleach hits him.

Situating yourself better, you slowly easing your arms onto the window sill, leaning your face onto them. It’s not quite breaking the rules of the kitchen—your face isn’t actually on it. You’re sure that if Head Chef Richard saw this, he’d give you a terrible tongue lashing in that thick French accent of his. It’d definitely be more welcome than being in here alone with nothing but your thoughts. 

A heavy hand rests on your head. You don’t even stir when his voice is right next to your ear; the musky smell of tobacco makes your nose wrinkle. 

“See? You’re tired. Ain't no one’s goin’ t’bother you if I can help it. Close up shop and rest a bit, Chef. Overwatch can’t run without you.” 

You wonder if he really knows the depths of the words he speaks, and breathe a shuddering sigh.

“Okay.” Then you add, “You better not be acting nice because you want something.”

There’s an exaggerated gasp above you that gets you smiling. “Me? Never.” 

“Dessert? More gourmet coffee from your favorite joint in Route 66?” The word ‘tamales’ get stuck behind your teeth.

He gags. “No, thank you, that stuff tastes like dirt.”

He says that, but you know he visits that diner often (details of agent whereabouts are always carefully recorded by Athena, and you are in constant access of them) and drinks a copious amount of it anyway. You shift your head and shoot him a look that just bounces off him. “Are you sure it’s not because of your smoking habits?”

“If it were, everything’d taste bad, but I know they ain’t, cause your food tastes like heaven.”

Waves of embarrassment from different memories collide (of your first dishes here that were unservable, of your first time approaching Jesse was slighted, the first time someone told you your food was delicious), the remnants of their explosion color your face. “Flatterer!” 

Jesse just laughs and laughs, the deep baritone soothing something you haven’t realized built up over the months you’ve been here. “Go t’sleep,” he says, “I’ll wake you up later.”

###### 

Hanzo springs up from the bed with a harsh gasp, awaken by false proclamations of: " _You're the best brother in the world,_ " and a deathly gurgle dyed in red. 

He wants to desperately dig into his belongings and pull out his trusted companion, the sake gourd, to deafen the echoes in his ears—“best brother”—but the thought of remaining where his nightmares fester forces him to leave the bed and escape through the door before it even fully opens

Jaw tight and every muscle in his body taut, he quickly makes his way through the base—to where, he doesn’t know, stumbling and nearly tripping over himself without his usual grace, clinging to the wall like a man learning to walk. He knows he is a pathetic sight, hair and beard askew, dressed less presentably than he would normally prefer and sweat-drenched, but he does not care. It is sheer stubbornness that keeps him moving and a deep-seated fear that keeps him from turning back.

The empty halls embrace his arrival with the fanfare of buzzing emergency lights, but they also lead the ghosts of his past straight to him with no doubt to his destination. Mercifully, there is no one to see his disgraceful state. 

A physical wash of relief falls over him he stumbles into the mess hall and the doors close shut immediately behind him, trapping his fears on the other side. He takes a moment to lean against the door, heaving, shaking. 

The moon is high above, filtering into the windows, bouncing off the pillars and illuminating the cavernous room. It’s quiet. The tables and benches all lined up like pews. It’s not the first time he’s felt that this does not seem like a cafeteria at times, but those churches he sees in movies. 

Pushing himself off the door, Hanzo makes his way to the terminals lined up some distance from the dimly lit service window. Since he’s here, he may as well. 

He fumbles with his credentials at the terminal, its light burning holes into his retinas, barely able to orders tea—not his usual green tea, but lapsang souchong. He needs something dark to drown and obscure the remnants of his nightmare. If he had been any more impaired, he would’ve even ordered that minty, sweet-bitter tea that Ana drank just to distract himself with the film that would quickly form on his tongue and the sweetness that call upon something resembling cheer.

Shakily, he sits beneath the service window, huddling his knees to his chest. Either so he's not seen by the chef or so he's not seen by something else—he doesn't know. But there’s an impatient buzz in his veins that screams about him to keep running. His trembling fingers fist into his hair, mouth and nose shoved deep into the ‘v’ of his elbows, his breathing labored. 

He tries to focus entirely on the cacophony of noise, even if it is painful to his ears and jars him to the bone. The hiss of a door; dampened yet confident footsteps; the chatter of small utensils against each other; the sound of rushing water filling up a vessel; the clicking of a stove. 

Hanzo waits, sweat cooling against his skin. The only light that illuminates the cafeteria is that from the kitchen. It's almost laughable the image that it conjures. He, a broken assassin cast in the darkness, and yourself, a chef with a uniform of white and normality. 

‘How nice it is to be a cook,’ he thinks bitterly. To know nothing except the fire and food. To know nothing of having blood on your hands, or the corruption, of the dark dealings, of sacrifice, of the harsh experiences of the people you serve. Only to eat all day and devote yourself to mixing flavors and cultures onto a plate. 

Enviable, enviable. 

A shaky sigh escapes him, and he shoves his head deeper into his arms. When did he become so weak? When did he start to run from his nightmares instead of trembling through them, gasping and tearing at his gi in the middle of the night with naught by his bottle of comfort him? Envying the life of another? Pathetic. Especially when he deserves to suffer for all that he’s done, for being a spineless coward in the face of authority—

No, he needs to focus. 

_Clink. Clink. Shwip. Kchshwip. Sizzle, kshh, shh._

He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He only knows of his patience that wears thinner and thinner until he's close to snapping at the window when you hit the bell. The ringing echoes in his mind, ripples tearing through out the distant call of a fleeting praise—" _You're the best big brother in the world._ "

Limbs having gone stiff from being so tense, it takes him some time to get up. The light from the kitchen is makes him flinch. It’s far too bright.

The tray sits there, teapot and tea cup smelling of smoked wood and a small plate atop another, covering its contents. 

For once, you’re there—or at least, your torso—remains for once. 

"Are you alright, Agent Hanzo?"

There's something about your voice that he feels he should pay attention to, but as it is, he's too tired and nerves too worn to dwell on it for long.

“Agent Hanzo?”

He can say nothing, jaw locked lest the demons of his anguish and cowardice spill out of his mouth and take physical form. He can’t stay here. Not with you standing on the other side, judging him for something he does not want bared to the world. 

Without answering and with his hands still shaking, he grabs the tray and again creeps into the darkness, seeking refuge at his secret spot overlooking the sea. 

“Excuse—wait, Agent Hanzo?” He doesn’t hear you behind him, shouts echoing, “Agent—oh geez. Athena!” 

###### 

The air is sticky with humidity and warm, but not yet the stifling heat he knows the Mediterranean sun is capable of. The pungent tea does very little to calm his nerves; it is not strong to smother anything. 

Maybe he should’ve gone for his sake after all. 

He runs a hand through his disorderly hair, the tangles and griminess of it all makes him grimace. A pathetic mess, indeed. He downs his cup and pours himself another and downs that one, too.

These nights are not uncommon, but they are not usually this bad. 

It was manageable when he first arrived. His previous nightmares have been tame, bearable up until the recent months. He doesn't know if his mind is now settled enough and free to think of things other than survival that it chooses to plague him with nightmares that are long past due, nipping at his heels with a ferociousness unmatched. 

It'd be a lie to say he hasn’t been avoiding Genji since that day.

There are cracks forming in his composure and he's desperate for a distraction. He wants to stare out to the sun until it burns away his vision and leaves his demons withered in its brilliance. He wants to run away like he’s done for the past ten years, surviving and hoping that someone would end him in a life-or-death battle, at the end of a sword that barely anyone uses as a viable weapon anymore. 

Another cup is poured, and he breathes in deeply, something still vibrating in his veins. The scent of wood and sea—it’s a cleansing smell. Salt for demons of the land, the ashes of woods for the demons of the sea. 

Hanzo digs a palm into his thick brow. If only his demons could be contained so easily. 

“Greetings, Hanzo.”

The voice snaps his spine straight. 

Zenyatta.

Somewhere inside, irritation claws at him. He does not want to deal with this monk whom his brother speaks such high, genuine praises of, or be subject to his company. (Especially not when the omnic is so easily able to place himself onto the ledge like gravity is of no significance to him.) 

It would be a lie if he said he didn't feel like throwing himself off the ledge this instant just to escape what would undoubtedly be a lecture or unwanted abstract advice. 

“May I sit here?” 

“No,” he snaps. And then, more annoyed: “What do you want?” 

The omnic pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I was informed that you were troubled and may be in need of guidance.”

“By this Iris of yours?” 

Whatever Enlightenment entailed, he never would’ve imagined it called itself the Iris, nor that it would be achievable by something inorganic. Though, he supposed a machine with a clean slate would have a better chance at achieving it than someone of sordid character like himself. 

Before Zenyatta can even answer, Hanzo waves him off, not even turning around to look at him. Exhaustion fills him up like a vessel. “Your concern is wasted on me. Leave.”

“It is not solely my own concern, Hanzo.” The archer grips his cup tight. “There are others who are concerned for you.” 

“Then they should also mind their own business.” 

“There are some things that cannot be helped. Genji—” 

“Do not speak his—no.” He takes a steadying breath. No, that’s not his right anymore. 

Zenyatta continues softly, “Genji was hopeful as was I when we saw your progress with Ms. Amari and the other agents. We want to ensure you remain on this path.” 

The rage he thought he had doused comes back with a violence that makes him slam the delicate cup onto the ground, tea and shards splashing everywhere, nearly dislodging the tray into the sea.

“So you have been observing me, too!?”

Zenyatta's face gives nothing away. He tilts his head upward to look into Hanzo’s face, an aura of serenity about him. 

“Perhaps. But know that it is because you are now an ally, and while you are your own worst enemy,”—even though the omnic’s eyes are merely holes, Hanzo could feel them boring holes into his very being, an intense energy behind him that makes him feel like he’s been stripped bare—“your pain is not your own anymore.”

With a delicate motion of his finger that Hanzo did not think that omnics were capable of, Zenyatta lifts the upside-down plate. 

There sits his new favorite treat: pan-fried rice cake with red beans. 

###### 

_”It iz a chef’s responsibility to take care of their customers. Cook ze best food for them. Love them with all our being. We chefs exist for them. We die for them.”_

_“...chef, that sound fucking insane. They should be happy you even cook for them.”_

_“Selfish child! Without customers, we chefs are without purpose! Think before you speak!”_

“Chef?” 

The sound jolts you out of your light slumber beneath the service window. It takes you a few moments to remember what the hell you were doing out here. (God, that was the second time in twenty-four hours you’ve slept out here. The last time before that was the time you all got drunk and celebrated Agent Genji eating a full bowl of food.)

“A-agent Zenyatta?” You wince at the sound of your own voice and the phlegm in it. 

“I have seen to Hanzo,” he says gently. You straighten up, minutely tugging the hem of your uniform into place. “He has returned to his room for the moment. He is in no danger.” 

“Oh.” You breathe a small sigh of relief. “Thank you, Agent Zenyatta. I’m sorry for asking you to do that.”

“Think nothing of it. It is the duty of those who follow the Iris to help those who are lost.” 

You laugh, exhausted and somewhat delirious, the smooth surface of the walls above the window cool against your forehead. “I suppose it is. Thank you.”

Zenyatta laughs. It sounds almost like chimes. "And to you as well. Good night—oh, good morning, I suppose."

From your position, you could barely see the creeping rays of the sun skating across the cafeteria. Time for morning service, you supposed with a yawn. "Yes. Good morning, Agent Zenyatta."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you plan your chapters poorly. A lot of stuff.
> 
> 「 」indicates speech in Japanese.


	6. Chapter 6

“Aww, no fair!” 

You choke mid-slurp on the instant noodles you have in your hands, broth splattering all over the notes you were working on. 

Agent D.Va pops her head through the partition in the wall. “Are you okay in there?” 

“Athe, thena. Why didn't you— _kah_ —why didn't you warn me?” you wheeze, tears in your eyes as you try to dislodge the specks of soup from your airpipe. 

The AI dares sound a little smug when she responds, “You had requested for surveillance to be lifted from the kitchen area, and so I have taken the liberty of—”

“You know that’s, _koff—_ ow, that's not what I meant.”

“My apologies, I shall endeavor to do better in fulfilling your self-destructive requests in the future.” 

You glare up at the cameras before remembering that you had Athena turn them off. You clear your burning throat. 

“Don’t blame Athena, I told her not to say anything.”

The young lady hauls herself forward, balancing on just her stomach between the two domains. You cringe a bit when you see her hair sweeping against the sill. 

_It's not sanitary._

You had to turn away, stamping down the internal disgust that squeezes your insides. The bowl of hastily made noodles gets set off to the side as you steel yourself and walk over to the window. 

“Please remove yourself from there,” you try to say as neutrally as possible. “What if someone sees you?” 

D.Va shrugs, nonchalant, and only slides back marginally. Her hair pools further over the smooth marble sill.

“I want _ramyeun_ , too. Why do _you_ get to eat all the good stuff?”

_Good stuff?_ You over at your bowl; a spare egg and the discarded stems of broccoli from last night’s dinner coloring the little mess of half-assed noodles that are slowly growing fat with too much broth. “That’s not ‘good stuff’. The food you eat is much more nutritious and is catered to your specific dietary ne—”

“You're just hogging the good stuff to yourself,” she repeats with a mock-pout. 

“It’s not ‘good stuff.’” 

“Say you.” 

“...did you just call my cooking bad?”

She skillfully ignores the question. 

“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you eat with us before.” Suddenly alive with mischief and the brewing of a great idea, she chirps, “You should come out here and join us, it can’t be any fun eating by yourself in there.”

Your nose wrinkles.

“Chefs don’t eat with their customers. We’re still needed during service.” 

“You should see the chefs back home. They’ll come sit down and eat with us at the table.” 

You want to argue that you don’t subscribe to that philosophy, and it’s not the way you’re trained, and that’s it’s positively unprofessional, and your head pounds with an ancient mantra of: “ _chefs do not eat until their customers have eaten_.”

Wisdom keeps your tongue still.

“Hey, I know! How about you make some _budaejjigae_! That way, you don’t have to cook and you get to eat with us! Win-win!”

You open your mouth to object, but she beats you to it. 

“Want the recipe for it? Mom makes it best.” She pulls it up on her communicator and shoves it at you. You go cross-eyed at the bright, floating screen and translated text, averting your eyes as you take it.

Spam, little sausages, kimchi, rice cakes, mushrooms, instant noodles; korean spicy sauce (you make a face; you won’t be able to eat this without paying for it later); the list goes on and on.

With ingredients like this, you could make about three days worth of differing dishes—kimchi musubi, kimchi fried noodles or rice, pasta with garlic sauteed mushrooms, instant noodle carbonara with spam or sausages, that spicy korean rice cake dish with cheese (you hardly remember the person who tried to teach you this; there were just so many chefs back then trying to shove various information down your throat). 

To throw all these ingredients all into one dish for just one meal seems like a waste, especially since food drops are few and far in between. If only rationing and strict inventory management wasn’t an issue, you’d have no problems making this. But as it were, you could only hope that Overwatch becomes sanctioned again so that it may return to the days of a bustling kitchen, unmonitored drop routes, and endless culinary experiments. 

There’s a darker part of you that reminds you there are several reservoir of funds you could dip into for this request. The ingredients are relatively cheap, and you can likely get most of them in a short amount of time (even the Korean chili paste, which you expect would be hardest to find, might not be such a hassle to obtain). There’s no reason why you couldn’t just indulge in this for Agent D.Va, who is far away from home and presented you with another learning opportunity.

This stew, _budaejjigae_ , is definitely simple enough. Chop, arrange, and boil. But is it really enough to justify throwing all that into a stew? For agents who have such fickle tastes? 

You scroll down a little further, and your breath catches when you reach the end.

There are pictures upon pictures of Agent D.Va—no, _Hana_. 

She’s much younger, hair in short pigtails beneath her ears, unevenly slicing up scallions with a tiny knife with an older woman— _her mother_?—at her side; she’s sitting on the floor with what seems to be her family and even extended family jam packed around a small, short table full of food, of which, you could make out the spicy stew; she’s fighting with someone much younger than herself for noodles—she seems to be victorious; the next picture shows she’s a gracious winner and gifts another plate with the hard won noodles. 

There are further pictures of older people, wrinkled faces pulled taut by smiles and open mouths; a constant recurrence of a younger boy, a middle-aged woman, a middle-aged man; it’s very, very homely and the sight squeezes a far off memory of chatter and laughter from the depths of your mind: the clanging of pots, the scrapes of spatulas, yells of “hot, hot” and “behind” and “watch your heads.” Of the closest thing to a family you've ever—

“Wasn’t I cute when I was younger?” 

The sound of her voice startles you into closing the window, a deep sorrow resting in your gut, warmth just under your cheekbones and seeking exit through your eyes. 

Wordlessly, you return the communicator.

She takes it back with a grin that seemed just a bit forced. “Thanks. So? Easy, right?” 

“Yes. Easy,” you say slowly, carefully. “I’ll...think about it. But only think!”

It’s too late. She’s already cheering, “Woo! D.Va: one, Chef: _zero_!”

While it potentially throws off any future dinner plans you may have, the joy she exhibits brings a smile to your face. 

Maybe, maybe it won't hurt to indulge her. Though, you'll have to have her keep this secret. It wouldn't do to have agents knowing that you are soft to their wants lest your careful inventory control goes to waste. 

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention. I have another guest with me.” 

“Another guest…?”

You just miss the vicious grin that overtakes D.Va’s features as the clicking of heels has the hair on your neck stand, and someone else speaks. 

“Guten Morgen, Chef.”

Your stomach nearly crawls its way out of your throat, and you take back anything nice you were going to do for Agent D.Va.

It’s well after the normal breakfast time when Hanzo finally emerges from his room, tray in hand with empty plates and sans a single teacup. 

No, he did not spend any amount of time agonizing about _apologizing_ for breaking the delicate cup. Though, the teapot does look lonelier without its companion. And it was a rather lovely cup even if he didn’t quite remember the exact details of its appearance. 

There’s a distinct lack of personnel in the cafeteria, and even in the kitchen, much to his relief.

On the flat of the service window stands a small sign that reads:

> _BRB_
> 
> (๑òㅅó๑)

with no indication of a return time and every indication this was written by Hana.

Just what mischief did that young lady drag you into?

Though, he’d be lying if he weren’t grateful for her interference. It seems that he won’t have to explain why you’re suddenly short a piece of drinkware any time soon. (Though, he really doesn’t quite know your stance on the matter of missing teacups—Genji was the one who dealt with you the last time.)

He puts away last night's tray in the little return window next to the service one. It's almost reminiscent of Japan and those self-serve noodle shops where he's allowed to pick up whatever fried foods he wanted onto a plate before ordering a large sized ramen or two. Those were left for rarer days after an especially rewarding job (in more ways than one). 

As Hanzo passes by the service window again, the little rabbit drawing staring at him, he pauses. 

Now that you’re not in there, it would be a perfect time to find out exactly what lay inside that’s so precious that Athena would not allow him to enter. 

It’s more reasonable to think that it’s just a matter of protocol, that it’s to prevent thievery of midnight snackers, or—

“ _I heard there is a great treasure kept inside that kitchen_.”

Hanzo grits his teeth.

It would be in poor taste to try and return your kindness with blatant disrespect for your territory, not to mention that you would likely be annoyed about the teacup. There was no need to compound the marks against him. 

Despite his curiosity, he forces himself to turn away and leave.

And nearly runs right into the resident cowboy. 

“Whoa there.”

He has to resist his long-learned habit of standing his ground and takes a half-step back. The other man does the same. 

“McCree.” 

For once, the cowboy is not wearing that obnoxious poncho thing that smells like it’s been doused in pungent tobacco and alcohol. He’s still, however, sporting that hat of his that seems like it’s the only thing controlling that nest of a hairdo.

The man tips his hat up with a thumb, a languid smile on his face that tries to cover something far more dangerous.

“Howdy, fancy seein’ you here.”

Hanzo opens his mouth to respond, but pauses. 

Annoyance, an all too familiar emotion, crawls up his back in humiliating waves. What does that mean? Is it really so strange that he’s seeking food in a cafeteria? Or is it that he is aware that Hanzo hasn’t been in here very often? 

Is he being watched by _everyone_? 

“Was just gonna grab some grub, but…” McCree’s eyes slide over to the window where the flimsy sign sat, oblivious to the archer’s building ire. “Looks like Chef’s out, huh?” 

“Yes, Miss Song seems to be responsible.”

He could swear he hears the cowboy mutter something akin to “‘bout damn time” underneath his breath, but he can’t be entirely sure because it’s quickly covered up by a jovial smile and a tip of a hat. “Guess that means grub ain’t til later. Ain’t that a shame.”

He really doesn’t sound all that disappointed at all for some reason, and the mysteries of Overwatch just seem all that much more blatant, taunting and teasing at him. McCree turns to leave, and Genji’s reminder that ‘ _Jesse may know more’_ echoes in his mind. 

Against his better judgement, he calls out, “Wait.” 

The thick wall of pride and stubbornness has been chewed up enough by his curiosity. Even the threat of peppers in his food cannot deter him (besides, it is not a crime to seek information). 

“Hm? Something I can d’you for, Shimada?”

Hanzo opens his mouth to answer, but pauses for a moment and squints at the man, trying to decipher the question.

“'Do you for?’”

Seeing the confused pinch in Hanzo’s brow, McCree clicks his tongue and waves it off. “Guess y’never heard the expression. Pay it no mind. How can I help you, Shimada?” 

“‘Do you for?’” he repeats, more insistent. 

“You know, like doing a person in.” 

“You wish to do me in, then?” 

Hanzo’s never one to let go of something he didn’t understand. McCree 's shoulders slump, seemingly resigned himself to having done _himself_ in with his own attempt at a joke. He shrugs. 

“Depends. You’re not the top of my list, that’s for sure.” 

Hanzo can’t help the sudden flare of anger at the insult, and he clenches his fists at his side to keep them from finding their way around the cowboy’s thick neck and just pressing down, down, down until—

“And there is someone more worthy to take down than I?” he grinds out instead. 

McCree jerks his thumb somewhere behind him. “Junkers are worth twenty-five a piece. You, on the other hand…” 

Bounties. 

(Mentally, he has to spell out and count the number of zeroes that the number '25’ could possibly entail. It's embarrassing to say, but he still occasionally misconverts numbers. 

It's only with a sliver of pride that he has never made a blunder as big as Genji, who had argued with a native English speaker that ten million was actually spoken as ‘a thousand-ten thousands.’ )

Twenty-five million is not cheap by any means, but it’s not so high that he would risk getting blasted with shrapnel over. Even before he left Shimada castle, that sort of money would be easily returned after several jobs, and if it were his father’s services, it’d be done twice as fast. 

If he were to have a bounty, Hanzo is sure it’d be much higher than a mere twenty-five million. 

(On paper, he has no such thing. He’s an assassin—to have a bounty on his head would be to reveal his existence. He’s not so foolish as to ever be caught, and he’s sure that the remnants of the Shimada clan would not want to advertise their young master’s betrayal even if it’s the worst kept secret in all of Hanamura. Just through word of mouth from the assassins that he’s killed does he know his true value.) 

“Surely there are other people worth more than _them_.” Like himself, even if he didn’t have an official number to his name.

The cowboy gives a thoughtful hum and falls silent for a second, and then offers, “Ana herself is worth seventy.” 

Surprise colors his face, his eyebrows having risen up to his hairline. “Impressive.” 

“In _euros_.” 

Let it never be said that Hanzo Shimada is incapable of being caught off guard, especially with McCree and Athena’s surveillance systems as witness. 

“Euros?”

Ever since the Omnic Crisis years ago, the balance of the world’s currency had shifted. Most of the world had moved on to ‘credits,’ a universally accepted form of cryptocurrency that emerged after the Bitcoin Bubble burst some fifty-odd years ago. The current system is infinitesimally better regulated and better received. It made purchasing things internationally convenient and transactions even more so. However, locally, the paper (and coin) currencies were still being used as though the people were all still hanging onto whatever nostalgia was associated with such objects. 

Hanzo never really cared as long as he was compensated properly for his work, but he still has to a take a moment to do the conversion into credits in his head. And the euro, even now after it’s been deemed largely defunct except by local governments, is still strong, stronger than the dollar by almost double.

McCree laughs out loud, drawing him from his shock, a fondness weaving its way into his voice. “Ain’t that a hoot? Woman at that age, still manages to outvalue everyone else on base. I reckon it’s higher than ol’ Soldier’s. But it ain’t gentlemanly of me to turn such a good shot in.” 

_Everyone._

Hanzo surmises that McCree must be including himself. It’s not as though Hanzo came to Overwatch unprepared, but the concept of ‘bounties’ did not really matter so much to him. It’s all subjective, a rough scale of the target’s difficulty level (or an indicator of just how much anger the target has roused). He knows the woman is impressive. He’s seen it firsthand in a single mission where she managed to fire off a biotic round into his perch that he was certain did not have any openings. He was dead wrong and humbled by the fact that he had such a powerful ally with him. 

But to have a number to put to her skill definitely put things into perspective. 

“Well, I seem to have strayed off topic. Now then, archer, what can I help you with?” 

Hanzo immediately straightens himself up, annoyed that he was so easily led astray from is original purpose.

Though, the question of what’s in the kitchen seems like a trifling compared to the sheer value of the men and women that surrounded him. Whatever is in there likely cannot even hold a candle to each agent's value. But’s not like he can easily betray these people and turn them all in. That would be beyond redeemable. (And he’s sure none of them would go down so easily, anyway.) 

"The kitchens,” he tries to say as casually as possible like he’s not curious to know, “I heard that there’s something hidden there, and that you would know of what lies in it.” 

McCree regards him with amusement, like he just asked for something silly that is beyond his understanding. He's seen this look from his father's associates and his elders many times before. (He would quickly wipe it off their faces with his feats.) Again, it’s irritating.

“Reckon y’ heard that from Genji. And he calls _me_ a troublemaker." 

He strokes his beard in contemplation. Of course McCree would be hesitant to tell him anything. They weren't exactly on friendly terms, and are likely getting along only due to Genji’s intervention—the troublemaker. This may have been a silly idea. Whatever is in that kitchen cannot be important or worth considering. 

“You got time for a story?" he asks, finally. 

Whatever Hanzo had expected out of his mouth, it certainly wasn't that. 

"If you must, make it a quick one," he snaps. He does not require an entire prologue, he just needs to know the nature of what he’s dealing with.

“Will try, but ah, this information like this don't come cheap."

Hanzo scowls. It figures that this information wouldn't be so freely given. But the fact that McCree says this assures him that whatever is in that kitchen is not a mere phantom of Genji’s imagination, and that the information would be sound. Nothing worth having in life is ever free, after all. 

“Name your price." 

McCree whistles and Hanzo’s neck goes stiff as he tries keep himself from looking around for the shadows. "Confident, ain't ya?” He jerks his bearded chin at the door. “Walk with me.”

A refusal is immediately in his throat, and half-way through his teeth but it makes sense to not discuss this in front of the place that they are speaking of. (Actually, he’s not sure if it’s ruder to discuss the kitchen in front of it or away from it. It’s a foolish consideration, but he’s probably even more so for having asked in the first place.) 

McCree steps aside, sweeping an arm toward the door. 

“After you.” 

Nodding tersely, Hanzo steps forward and McCree follows. It’s not everyday he allows someone to stand behind him. Every part of him prickles, alert that there’s a man behind him who is capable of emptying half the bullets of his gun into his body before he’s even able to get to safety. These halls have many doors, but are too straightforward. There is little place to hide. 

Hanzo takes a breath and keeps walking. 

He is not insecure or even the slightest bit doubtful of his own abilities, but it’s been a long while since he’s been surrounded by people who he would even remotely consider on his level. (And that stings more than he cares to admit.) 

The topic of their discussion falling further and further behind until McCree directs them to the common room.

There’s already a few people here, scattered about and lost in their own conversations. 

Hanzo really does not see how discussing this information in such an open area is any better than talking about it in the mess hall. Some of his thoughts must’ve made its way to his face because McCree gestures at one of the seats. 

“Cop a squat, that treasure ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

Hanzo again looks mildly confused at the strange expression, but gets the gist and makes himself comfortable on the seat across from McCree, who does the same, leaning his forearms against his knees. 

"Right, so let me tell you about the kitchen before we get into the deal." 

Hanzo holds up a hand. "The deal first."

"Now hold your horses. They're related, don't worry. I'm just givin' you a bit of history so y’know what's comin’." 

The archer frowns. 

Reluctantly, he mutters, “This had better be worth it.” And braces himself for something that isn’t. 

“If y’like that bottle on your hip, you're gonna like what I have to say.”

But the implied promise of alcohol keeps him patient. “Go on.”

McCree puts his hands together, apparently in thought as he begins his story. 

"See, there's this door inside the kitchen, ain't no one's ever seen what's inside. That's ‘cause you need biometrics"—McCree wriggles the fingers of his prosthetic hand—"to get in. And there ain't no one who can get in there without a chef.”

Hanzo highly doubts it. 

“What’s behind this door is Gibraltar’s greatest treasure. We used t’call it ‘the Cellar’.”

He almost snorts. That is the most uncreative name Hanzo’s ever heard for anything, but he can't complain. He did pick his alias as plain 'Hanzo’ after all. (He’s only slightly comforted in the fact that other people seem to have done the same, but remains a touch envious of those who didn't.)

McCree regales him with the details: it was said that a most exquisite treasure was being kept in the kitchens of Gibraltar Watchpoint. A treasure meant to sustain the organization. Overwatch, it was said, cannot survive without this treasure and so it should never be disturbed. 

The best guess anyone has is alcohol. Liquid courage. Nectar of the Gods. Whatever you want to call it, it is guarded fiercely by the chefs of the Watchpoint—of all people.

Barrels of wine of all types were said to line the entryway leading to several caverns, each carefully temperature controlled for optimal preservation of the liquid treasures held inside.

The ferocity of which the chefs guard their territory gives some credence to this rumor. Anyone caught trying to enter this forbidden territory would be harshly reprimanded and treated to punishment by the Head Chef _Richard_.

“Big guy, ain’t afraid to take you down a peg or two. French,” he adds.

Hanzo could have guessed that from the overly exaggerated accent in which he says the name.

“But who knows what’s in there now. Some folks said it was cleared out when Overwatch fell. Others say that it was defended to the death and the ghost of Head Chef Richard still haunts it. I reckon only Chef there knows now.”

The previous head chef is dead, then?

“So why have you not attempted anything? There is only one chef inside.” 

McCree shoots him an incredulous look. “Listen, partner. You’re makin’ a mistake if you think it’s mano-a-mano.” He points up to the ceiling, voice dropping to a paranoid whisper. “I know when I’m outgunned. Y’really think I can make it past Athena? Nah, I ain’t no ninja.” 

Luckily for Hanzo, he is. 

"And? You have told me the story. What is your price?"

McCree leans back into his chair, arms crossed. Flippantly, he says, "The treasure. If it’s alcohol, I _dare_ ya to find a bottle and bring it back. T’share, sixty-forty; anything’s good. Reckon it wouldn't be much of a treasure if they only kept junk brew in there.”

It's confidence in his skill and the situation that makes him say, "One? Who do you think I am?" He is up against a lone chef and an AI. Easy. It would hardly be a challenge and give him something to do other than shoot at the training bots or try to best everyone’s scores in the simulations. 

McCree shrugs one shoulder, a lazy smirk playing on his lips, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. "Make it as many as your arms can carry, then. Ain't no time limit, by the way. Take as long as you'd like. Oh, and if y’get caught by the chef, no retaliatin’. We all still gotta eat." 

“You underestimate me, gunslinger.” 

Even the extra condition does not dampen his confidence. The rewards far outweigh the cost, and the temptation of a bounty of alcohol is strong. Ever since coming to the Watchpoint, he had tried to keep his drinking to a minimum, if only to pretend he has some semblance of self-control. (That, and sake is hard to procure in Gibraltar. He saves what precious little he can for days he really needs it. Like several days ago when he finally emptied the last of it, trying to drink himself blind in a sad attempt to drown the memories of Genji’s love for food.)

“Seventy”—Hanzo points to himself, then at McCree—“thirty.”

“Hey now, that info ain't cheap. Sixty for me, forty for you.”

Hanzo snorts, amused by the fact that this cowboy dare questions his math. “I do not see you helping or succeeding.” His eyes drops to the cowboy's spurs, and McCree, who follows his gaze, jingles them a bit. “Seventy-thirty,” he repeats.

McCree makes a noise of contemplation, looking to the ceiling for guidance, and sighs.

“How's this? If you manage to get more than one bottle, then okay, seventy-thirty.” He then points. “But! If you only get one, then it's sixty for me.”

Hanzo ponders these conditions for a moment. So the cowboy does not think he'll get any more than one bottle? He smirks to himself. 

"You have yourself a deal,” Hanzo says smugly, already confident that he is the true victor in this exchange. 

"Great. Lookin’ forward to your haul, partner.” 

Jesse holds out a gloved hand that Hanzo stares at for a moment too long. 

"Y'shake when—" 

Hanzo grips his hand with more force than necessary and shakes it twice, annoyed that he has to be taught manners by someone who looks like they were accidentally dragged from a different era by the time-traveling woman. McCree returns the gesture, both of them suddenly locked in a life-or-death struggle of who can out-muscle the other. 

There’s a tension to McCree’s voice when he says, "Nice grip. Should’ve expected that from you."

"You are...not bad yourself." He won’t admit to anyone, not even under the threat of torture, but his fingers hurt just a little and he would probably be feeling it for the next two days. “Thank you. For the information.”

Jesse waves him off. “S’long as you keep your end of the bargain, it would’ve been worth it. But remember, you can’t attack the chef.” 

”Of course not.” He is not some amateur. Unnecessary injuries is not exactly the product of discretion, after all. Hanzo leaves with this newfound information, fueled by more than just an idle curiosity. This time, he has a bet alongside it. 

Tracer, who has been watching this exchange from a distance, comes up behind the cowboy, folding her arms over the couch's back. 

"Oh, Jesse, now just you're setting him up."

The cowboy rolls his shoulders. "It ain't like I lied about nothing." 

"He'll get Chef hopping mad, luv. Then we’ll all be eating slop for a week.”

“It's tradition.”

“For _Blackwatch_ , not us!”

“Well.” Jesse pretends to stretch languidly before folding his arms into himself. “Ain’t we all soldiers now?” 

He’s rewarded with a click of a tongue and a cheeky whack to his shoulder. “Oh, you!” 

“Oh, Lena,” he grunts, grabbing his shoulder in exaggerated pain. “I reckon you might’ve broken something.”

“I'm serious, Jesse. You ought to stop him. What if he finds out there’s no treasure?”

“No one ever said there is or isn’t. It was just a rumor back in the day. But don’t you want to see whether he can make it in there?”

She makes a face. “No way, luv. I don’t want to go back to eating rations for breakfast.” 

Jesse laughs. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we? How ‘bout you just mosey along, pretend you didn’t hear nothin’. I can stop it if it gets out of hand.” 

She puts up her hands in surrender. “So long as I’m not in trouble.” 

“Well, nice doin’ business with ya, too, Lena,” he mutters sarcastically. “Nice t’know I can count on you for some good ol’ mischief.” 

Tracer scoffs good-naturedly, “Always, Jesse. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take cover.” She throws a quick salute and a grin over her shoulder before blinking away, leaving Jesse to his schemes. 

Jesse chuckles derisively to himself, and closes his eyes.

There likely isn't such a thing as a treasure. However, it's never been properly confirmed by anyone. Not himself. Not by anyone else he knew. 

Though, there was perhaps one person outside of the kitchen staff who could have known, who strode into the kitchen like he owned it (the same way he acted like he owned everything else—with great confidence and a nonchalance that was frightening). It's not like he could ask now though. Or ever. 

The Cellar. That damned Cellar started a lot of trouble back in the day. 

It didn’t matter what it contained as long as he could get inside just to gloat and say that he did it. It was very unfortunate some of the Blackwatch agents—like himself—took up the challenge like it was a personal insult. It may have saved him a few bruises.

“The kitchen help should be the ones out in the field. They’re meaner than a gaggle of ornery old possums,” Jesse grumbled to Gabriel, who took in his protege’s swollen face and splinted fingers with little more than a loud snort.

“You’re lucky they didn’t make you tonight’s into dinner. Surprise menu: Mystery Meatloaf.” Gabriel returned his attention to the projected map that he was placing lines and dots on. Jesse gagged audibly, slapping a hand over his mouth. Gabriel just chuckled to himself.

At dinnertime, when Jesse selected ‘Set G’ (lemon chicken stuffed with risotto, baby caesar salad, two slices of baguette, and a strong cup of coffee), he gets…meatloaf. And Gabriel, who hovers over him like a hawk, forced him to eat it all.

That became war; a personal vendetta. 

That led to many, many more attempts to get inside, and many, many more injuries that could've been avoided. 

What could he say? He was hard-headed back then. 

But then, there was you. A dishwasher who managed to sneak him food during those times. Granted, it wasn’t anywhere near as delicious as the ones made by your superiors, but he’s not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth. He’s sure you got a good tongue-lashing for it, but the gesture definitely did not go unappreciated. 

And now, you’ve trapped yourself inside, unwilling to come out, likely bound by a steadfast obligation to the people who saved your life. Even when he first attempted to coax you out, you had slammed the door on him, declaring with the same ferocity as your previous boss that the kitchens are off-limits. It was lucky that you did not decide to take the same approach he did: beat the shit out of him. 

(He wondered just how much they taught you back then—did you inherit _all_ of your boss’s skills?) 

Jesse sighs wistfully, reaching up to pluck his choice of high from his lips, only to miss, realizing it’s not there at all. Dr. Zielger had forbidden smoking indoors. 

He eagerly awaits the aftermath of Hanzo’s attempt. Maybe it’ll get you angry enough to come outside and show your face like the old days. Maybe you’d begin to talk to people again. It’d be good for morale. God knows they all need it, even if they don’t all see it. 

(That, and it’ll be good payback for Hanzo beating his high score.)

“You’re late, dear,” a mechanical voice says accusingly. 

“Sorry, I was...occupied.” The dark space around you is occupied with a rainbow of screens, all fighting for your attention as you hurry to bring up even more. 

The good doctor Zielger had kept you in her office longer than you would’ve liked, running tests and lecturing you while your communicator buzzed in your back pocket. 

“Remember to take these twice a day before meals,” Dr. Zielger said as she presses two bottles of pills into your hands. The woman leans in, catching your eyes, and with the utmost seriousness, said, “And I'm sure you already know this, but avoid acidic, fatty, or spicy foods, caffeine, and absolutely no alcohol. Keep a high fiber diet and get plenty of rest.” 

If Argus had any eyebrows, you’re sure it’d be raised. “Occupied with?” 

“Doctor’s appointment. So, today’s agenda—”

“Oh, so you’re finally taking care of your health?” Argus sounds pleasantly surprised. “You chefs really don’t know how to take care of yourselves. I think Asim is picking up on your habits.”

You make a face. “Make sure he eats on time. I won’t have my head chef dying of the same crap I’m dealing with. _Especially_ not when he actually has food right in front of him.” 

“Truly. Remember when you threw up during dinner service? Or when you fainted momentarily and hit your head on the table? The other chefs just walked right over you.” 

You rub your head absentmindedly where you swear you could still feel a dent. “They know better than to stop service like that.” 

“Oh, I know,” she says dismissively. You can almost see her fixing her immaculate cuff as she speaks like she always does when she knows she’s right and just rubbing it in. “We didn’t get you to a hospital until after we had closed. You were fortunate.” 

You wince at the memory. “So, right. Today’s agenda.” 

Conceding momentarily to the change of subject, Argus’s tone becomes more business-like. “The fishing supplier we’ve been buying from has recently undergone new management and are looking to inflate the prices by 15% unless we enter a six-year contract with them. I have expressed that this is an unacceptable change and they were less than cooperative about the matter. I had hoped that threat of terminating our relationship would be enough, but it was ineffective.” 

You mark that down in your notepad. “Set up a one-hour meeting between myself and their new owner. In the meantime, contact the previous owner. We might be able to leverage our previous partnership and get connections to another fishing company. We can’t be stuck just because someone wants to play hardball.” 

“Understood, dear. I will also send you the previous signed contracts, invoices from the past six months, and a profile of the new company.”

“Great, thank you.” Under your breath, you mutter, “Fifteen percent...are they trying to kill me?” 

“The next order of business: donations.” 

“The usual ones are coming in?” 

“Yes, our interview has reeled in an increase of thirty percent. This should be enough to last us through the holidays since we plan on helping promote the Olympics in a short while, so we’ve been a little busy.” 

You nod, jotting that down also. “Good, good. Now if only we could finally get the lease on that other location in the meantime...hey, Argus? Did we finally get that contract?”

Nothing comes over the speakers of your communicators for a moment. 

“Argus?” 

“My dear, I really wished you would reconsider your involvement with _them_ ,” the omnic says solemnly. She says ‘them’ in such a way, it sends a rolling dread through you. “Please. We need you more than they do. Please do not risk everything just for them. Think of us.”

You open your mouth to answer, but another voice chimes in.

“Chef, Agent Soldier: 76 has come to order.”

“Be right there, Athena.” You don’t move from your seat, however, slowly taking in the omnic’s concerns and mulling over your words carefully. “I know, but I trust you guys to handle everything while I try to handle things here. I promise, everything’s going to work out. I’ll make sure of it.”  


There’s a bitterness in her voice as she replies, “And on what basis do you make those promises, dear?”  


Your tongue lies heavy in your mouth. The silence answers for you.  


And the communications go dead.


	7. Chapter 7

The halls of the Watchpoint in the early mornings are busier than one would expect. 

There are those who are just returning to sleep, like D.Va, who has likely just finished up a gaming session for her viewers in Korea. There are those who seemed like they never slept. Soldier: 76 would be wandering the halls like a poltergeist,never seeming to need sleep, frightening anyone not expecting the glaring red of his visor. Others like Genji and Zenyatta are already up (or having never slept), just about to begin meditations. 

Other agents are much more elusive and Hanzo tries his best not to keep track of their habits, but loses out to years of habit. 

So it’s certainly a surprise to Hanzo, who is deep in the middle of his _kata_ , when Reinhardt stumbles into the training room.

He ignores him in favor of finishing his form. The lack of missions in the past few weeks grows on him, whittling down his senses and nerves. While he’s not fully committed to Overwatch’s mission, he really does hope there’s some action soon. Though, he can’t quite shake off the needles of paranoia that bursts over his skin when he notices the giant watching him with startling silence.

It’s not that he’s not used to an audience—his teachers would often watch him and correct his form and Genji, way before he learned of his independence, would be staring intently to try to imitate the moves—but the way Reinhardt stares makes him self-conscious in a way that neither his teachers nor his family was able to (not until recently anyway). 

Hanzo finishes his form quickly, driven by muscle-memory rather than actual conscious effort, a fact that grates on him, but is only amplified when he acknowledges _why_. 

Reinhardt claps, a cheerful grin on his face. “Fine form, my friend!” 

Hanzo says nothing, his lips pressed together into a tense line, suspicion narrowing his eyes. No, they are not quite _friends_ and his form was sloppy and meaningless beyond reason.

“Fine form,” Reinhardt repeats, a smile too cheerful for this hour spreading on this face. “What say you to a quick, ah, sparring session?”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “With you?”

“Who else?” Reinhardt says easily, already rolling his shoulders. “Afraid to lose?” 

“Never.” 

Despite all of Overwatch’s flaws, it had one thing going for it: there’s never a shortage of competition. If this was all that the crusader wanted, Hanzo would be more than happy to indulge. 

“What are the terms?” 

“Bets; I like that.” Reinhardt strokes his beard thoughtfully, the smile turning mischievous in a way that makes Hanzo reconsider how much time he’s been hanging around Hana. “How about first ones knees to touch the floor loses? Winner gets beer.”

He tries very hard not to pull a face. “Sake.”

Reinhardt laughs heartily as he tries to bend himself in half, barely able to even touch his knees, let alone the floor. “Sure, _if_ you win.”

At that, Hanzo does make a face.

“You should stretch _after_ warming up,” he says sharply instead.

Reinhardt shrugs him off. “Bah, I’ll be fine.” 

A hot flash of irritation goes off in his face. How dare he—a man of his age, a man who is so reckless, he rushes in like he’s eager to die and drag the life of every healer with him—disregard his own health so carelessly. A sharp twinge goes off inside him when something in the back of his mind mockingly reminds him that he says this even though he never asks the others for healing. (“Like you’re punishing yourself,” Ana would say, slyly and infuriatingly smug.)

He decides then that he doesn't care enough to correct him. There’s another bet with alcohol involved, and he’ll be damned if that doesn’t sound like a conspiracy, but it’s not about the prize. 

It doesn’t take particularly long for Reinhardt and himself to face off against each other, both taking their respective stances. 

At first, they went easy. Slowly trading blows like a practiced dance, stepping back and forth into each other’s space, trying to gain the advantage. Hanzo has faced opponents much bigger than himself before, never really considering his height to be disadvantageous. Reinhardt is no different in that regard, but despite his size, he had a good bit of torque to his movements and Hanzo actually has to consciously avoid the slower than natural blows. 

If Hanzo were being honest with himself, this was a little fun, relaxing even. 

That is, until Reinhardt began to talk. 

“Fighting with your brother still?” 

Hanzo’s teeth clicked as he ducked under Reinhardt’s arm, prepared for the elbow that would fold and inevitably come down on his head. He deflects it with a little more strength than necessary. 

“We are _not_ fighting.”

“Really.” White eyebrows shoot up to an even whiter hairline. “You have not talked to him for days. Come now, tell me what ails you, friend.”

The response chafes him. 

Either Genji is still the loose-lipped fool he remembers from his youth or he is still being observed. That aspect of Overwatch is not unexpected, but their growing insistence in wedging themselves into his affairs is tiresome.

He's an adult. This is for him to solve. Not for a broken man who pretends that he's larger than the very life that broke them. 

“It is none of your concern.”

Hanzo returns the strikes with a few more of his own. Reinhardt actually manages to dodge two and deflect a third, allowing the fourth to collide with a meaty shoulder. 

It was simultaneously the truth and anything but. Everything was fine up until that point, bearable even. He supposed he did not truly, wholeheartedly believe that the walking piece of synthetic human machinery could truly be the rambunctious younger brother he always had to chase after and scold. Too many years and too many differences separated then from knowing the other, having only known the person they each kept in their memories. 

“You call avoiding Ana’s teatime ‘nothing’?” 

The archer grimaces. He can’t such a self-centered man managed to notice his absence. Reinhardt doesn’t even regularly attend these gatherings. 

The pace grows faster, steadier, heavier in lieu of an answer. Each strike, each kick has more weight and more meaning to it than a simple, polite call-and-response of fists. There's a fire behind his skin that only grows. 

“You make her sad,” he says solemnly, “and you make your brother sad.” 

“That’s none of your business!” Hanzo manages to land an actual hit on Reinhardt’s face, but the tank of a man takes it like it doesn’t faze him. He swears that unseeing eye, so much like Ana’s, is looking through him when he catches sight of it. He almost misses the arm that swings at his ribs and bends over backward to avoid it. 

This is the worst place to have this sort of conversation, and he has to remind himself that it would be in very poor taste to break the elderly man’s neck and leave him here for dead. (He’s also not entirely confident he could hide or drag away such a mountain anyway.) 

For a while, Hanzo remains in the offensive, but the crusader is becoming a lot more agile than he gave him credit for. Getting this man to hit the floor really shouldn't have been this difficult. 

Was it because he's bigger? Or because he has had at least thirty-odd more years of experience than himself? 

An open palm suddenly slaps him dead center in the chest— _such a short distance, how did he put so much force into it?_ —and Hanzo wheezes, popping back and then forward in a jump, intending to catch Reinhardt in his blind side. 

But the strategy proves to be less sound than he expected—of course, this man had lost his eye for years, there’s no way he would have not be used to such tactics—and Hanzo is again thwarted. 

“What’s wrong, Hanzo?” Reinhardt laughs, his voice become just a touch darker and his words become a little more deliberate. “You fight like you want to die.” 

Hanzo can’t control the sudden backhanded fist he throws at Reinhardt’s face. 

A thick forearm arm blocks his blow, and Hanzo has the sense of mind to create some distance and let some sense sink in and weigh his feet down before it carries him away despite how his heart beats furiously and his raw pride, offended by these careless words that strike too close to home, demands blood. 

He cracks his neck and shakes some feeling into his fingers. The stinging of his chest warms him, and the man who caused it stands there, waiting and hardly winded. 

It looks like he’ll be able to make up for his subpar morning exercise after all. 

Junkrat’s fourth order of fruit salad for breakfast hung over your head like a death knell. 

You rub your aching eyes furiously against your sleeve before quartering a set of apples that look like they have seen slightly better days. You really should limit the amount any one agent can order, but seeing the Junker actually dance and shout with joy, you couldn’t bring yourself to, not when something inside you just swells and squeezes and you’re suddenly all restless again, fingers itching to prepare something worthy to keep that joy on his face. 

It’s the same with everyone else. 

Those who wants seconds will get seconds. 

Those who want to eat will be given fed.

The only problem is that you’re on your last bit of fruits (though, truth to be told, you’re on your last bit of _everything_ ) and you’re not sure if anyone else would want any. 

You breathe to yourself. 

Tomorrow morning. 

You can wait until tomorrow morning. 

The next shipment should be coming in several hours before dawn, and if you’re really desperate, you could always run out to the grocery stores during that time. It was a great risk—Gibraltar isn’t exactly large, the streets themselves were crawling with cameras and surveillance. You’re no Overwatch agent, you can’t avoid them by double-jumping or blinking. 

It would be an absolute last resort, you decide. 

You mix the apple cubes with the other fruits, mixing it, and plating it with a sprig of mint on top. 

Agent Junkrat doesn’t even wait for the bell to go off, having been waiting at the window. 

“Mm-MM! Thanks, mate! You’re the best, y’know that? Really blowin’ me away here!” You can see him rubbing his hands excitedly, fingers then descending upon the tray like it’s a great treasure. “Gonna eat you up good.” 

You can only laugh breathily as the Junker snatches the tray away, holding it above his head in victory, but a slowly rumble in your stomach that belies a very real threat of pain reminds you that it is in need of something. 

You glance at the clock—just a bit after ten—and consider cleaning up before prepping for lunch service and getting some food and medicine for yourself. 

Though, something nags at you. 

_(“Chefs do not eat until their customers have eaten_.”)

Did you serve everyone yet?

The memories of this morning are sluggish, mashed up with the memories from the day before and the day before that. You frown, trying to draw up memories that just seem to be stuck in a bog. Automatically, your body moves to begin cleaning as you think. 

Who hasn’t eaten yet? 

You slowly go through the roster of agents, reciting their orders to yourself. 

‘Captain Amari had pancakes, coffee black, fruit salad; Madame Zielger just had the fruit salad with lemon tea; Roadhog is outside, took his pancakes without syrup and lots of fruit; Winston had his with peanut butter and bananas; Symmetra, yes. Tracer, check. Jesse, check. Rein—’ 

A stab of panic strikes you in the heart, nearly knocking the wind out of you.  

Agent Reinhardt and Hanzo haven’t eaten yet. 

Hanzo never misses a meal regardless of his strange behaviors recently, and Reinhardt always needs to eat before taking his medications and vitamins as per doctor’s orders. There are agents who would occasionally forget to eat, but you do not count these two among those. 

“Athena. Can you tell me the whereabouts of Agent Reinhardt and Agent Hanzo?” 

“Certainly. They are currently in Doctor Zielger’s office.” 

Now that was interesting. “Can you tell me why?” 

“Agent Reinhardt has experienced a back injury and Agent Hanzo was responsible for delivering him there.” 

“Oh.” Well, that explains everything. “Do you, do you think they still want breakfast? Could you ask?” 

“One moment, please.” 

While the AI tries to find the answers, you procure the medicine bottle prescribed to you by Madame Zielger from one of the pantry shelves. 

Your omnic friend’s words echo in your memory, “ _I think Asim is picking up on your habits._ ” 

“Don’t be so stupid,” you mutter bitterly to yourself, flipping the pills over before taking two as written. “Especially not when you actually _have_ food to eat.” 

“Chef. Agent Hanzo says he will be coming down for breakfast.” 

“Thank you.” 

“He’ll be having the pancakes, fruit salad, and sencha. With whipped cream and extra syrup.”

You groan. Not the fruit salad. You only have a meager amount left, barely enough to top a full bowl. Do you tell him it's no longer available or do you give him what's left and risk him being unsatisfied? Maybe, just maybe, you could cut up that last orange you were saving for Agent Mei for her post-dinner dessert. 

No, that wouldn't do. She always took fruit with her dinner. 

What to do? 

The options spin your brain around, a constant buzz that you can’t escape, and your thoughts barely take shape before they’re whisked away. 

Shaking your head, you set out for the batter, the familiar weight of a ladle in your hand calms the buzzing, but brings forth a swell of determination.

You can think and worry while cooking.

Their morning training went a little too hard; Hanzo’s pride far too sore from a few more choice words to let the morning spar end, and Reinhardt being too reckless and excitable to back off from the hook he’s sunken into the archer. It ended with a tie, something that Hanzo had to suggest out of respect for his opponent’s unfortunate results. Reinhardt was less than happy about it, but hardly had room to argue when he could barely get up, nearly steering Hanzo into walls as the shorter man tried to help him to the medbay. Hanzo had to hold his tongue, a stern, ‘I told you so’ on his lips. 

It was only polite. 

Reinhardt took the opportunity to pry some more, throwing in stories that filled the gaps in Hanzo's knowledge of his brother’s later life. He couldn't have been more grateful when Athena requested he get some breakfast, but it seemed that today was destined to be terrible. 

Ana is the first to notice his presence when he set foot into the cafeteria, waving him over toward the crowd of people she has around her. “Hello there! Come, you haven’t been joining us recently.”

Hanzo scans the crowd as casually as he can manage. Fareeha, Hana, Junkrat, and Roadhog. It's a strange crowd. The Amaris, he could understand, but the Junkers, too? And where does Hana fit in all this? 

Catching Hanzo’s brief glance, Junkrat holds the bowl of fruit close, shielding it from view.

“‘Eh, eyes off! S’all mine. Git your own.”

Hanzo snorts and turns away. He didn't want the fruit anyway. He ordered his own and while fruit is good, he can't wait to sink his teeth into soft, pillowy hotcakes—or, as Athena called them, pancakes. 

“I’ve been busy,” is his curt reply to the older woman. 

That should serve as explanation enough, but his company were far too nosy, likely bored from the few weeks of idleness they’ve been forced to endure while Winston figures out a strategy to tackle the rumors of Overwatch's resurgence. 

Hana’s eyes, though a little red-rimmed, are immediately alight, suspicious and far too invested. “Busy, hm? You don't say.”

Hanzo opinion of the young woman's influence on the other members of Overwatch resurface. She is a bad influence. 

Ana scoffs, waving a hand at him. "Don't be a stranger, sit, sit." 

"I have matters to attend to. Another time." Even to his ears, what comes out of his mouth sounds like half-hearted excuses forged from years of learned etiquette. Though, he really does need to retrieve his breakfast that's not yet ready. 

Fareeha and Ana stare at him with frighteningly similar looks—but of course they're similar, they're mother and daughter—of mischief and knowing. Paranoia crawls up his back, resting its spiny hands against his throat. 

“Have a seat, Hanzo. I know what you're up to,” says Fareeha slyly. 

“I do not know what you are talking about,” he says flatly, crossing his arms. “If you have some to say, be quick about it. I have no time for your games.”

She shrugs a bare shoulder, unfazed by his threats. “I heard you're taking on Jesse’s challenge?”

Is everyone out to interrogate him today? Unblinkingly, he replies, “And if I am?” 

“Good luck,” she laughs. “You'll need it.”

Far from the first time today, annoyance settles on his skin, seeping in and dying his insides in it, ready for a flame to ignite him. His hunger for food is slowly turning into hunger for pride. 

“What's Jesse's challenge?” Hana asks, butting shoulders with the ex-Helix guard, eyes shining at the idea of a 'challenge.’ “Is there a betting pool?”

Hanzo is quick to react. “That's none of your busi—”

“Athena, is the chef working right now?”

“Affirmative.”

“Can you make sure that Chef doesn't hear our conversation?”

Sounding entirely too amused to be considered a neutral witness to this madness, Athena answers, “I shall do what I can.”

Fareeha fixes him with a certain look that looks too much like the mother beside her. “And there we have it. Chef won't hear us talking anytime soon.”

He stands there, staring. He still doesn't know how to handle this woman. He would have expected the security professional to at least be a little bit alarmed or to be entirely opposed to the operation, not perpetuating it. Even stranger is Athena's reaction. Omnipotent as she is over Overwatch's affairs, why would she willing participate in his success? 

The whole world must be conspiring against him if they are so aligned with him. 

Fareeha leans forward in her seat, hands raised and dancing as she talks. “When I was young, Gabe used to take me into the kitchens—it was a big deal at the time since no one but chefs were allowed in there. But that's because they have a secret in there.”

“Ooh! What sort of secret?”

Fareeha smirks and Hanzo gets the feeling it's directed at him. “A _treasure_.”

“Treasure??! Whotssat 'bout a treasure, eh?” 

Pieces of fruit and spittle fly out, and Hanzo physically recoils, looking briefly to Roadhog to stem the madness that is Junkrat. As always, the man is unreadable. 

“Oh, _that_ old rumor.” Ana laughs softly into her cup and shakes her head. Hanzo can't help but wonder if she knew what the treasure was. 

“No one knows what this treasure is, but we know it's hidden behind this door that leads to the 'Cellar.’ I've seen it open a few times, but couldn't see where it goes. So.” She looks right at Hanzo, resting her chin against her fist. “You think you’re up to it?”

Junkrat seems to be seriously contemplating this new information and gives Hanzo a squinty look. 

"And y’plan to steal this treasure? You mad? Y' _really_ wanna mess with the bloke that makes your grub?" 

Hanzo has to take a step back to avoid getting a face full of hair or swinging arms. That Junkrat would have standards for stealing is unexpected. Hanzo supposes that there is such a thing as 'honor among thieves'. 

“Look, mate.” Junkrat takes on a hilariously serious tone, hand pressed together and pointing directly at Hanzo. “I _lo—ve_ a good heist, but this is food we're talkin’ 'bout ‘ere! And that chef in there makes th’ best tucker I had in...ages! Ain’t that righ’, Roadie?”

Roadhog grunts when he’s nudged with a sharp elbow, jerking his head once. 

“Point is, y’don’t mess with the bloke that feeds ya. Didn’t no one teach you manners?” 

He stares disbeliving. Is he really getting lectured about manners by a man who barely knows the entranceway to a building is _not_ a self-made hole in the wall? Hanzo shoots Fareeha a glare, promising her a swift death for bringing this upon him. It’s woefully ineffectual, and she just smirks. 

The tinny echo of a bell goes off in the cafeteria. The sound travels surprisingly well, and Hanzo’s retort dissolves in his mouth. 

“I believe that's yours,” says Ana, motioning him to the divide between kitchen and mess hall with a glance alone. 

“Don't do it, mate,” Junkrat warns sternly, laughably out of character. “Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!”

Hanzo largely ignores him, making his way to where his breakfast awaits and hopes that Athena is good on her word and kept you from hearing. 

At the window sill, the tray is stacked with a matching set of teapot and cup, a bowl of fruits, and a small server on the side, reminiscent of how he’s seen curry served (just much, much smaller now), holds an amber liquid. A stack of four browned discs stars as the centerpiece with a swirl of cream leaning against the stack’s side.

Hanzo’s face falls just a bit.

It seems he either didn't hide it well enough or you're much more perceptive than he realized.  You return to the window, or at least, your torso does. 

“...is there something wrong with your breakfast? I can remake it if you'd like.”

He presses his lips together. 

Did you hear their conversation? No, if you did, there's no indication of it. But there is something about your voice that bothers him. It echoes slightly around the edges similar to when Zenyatta or Genji speaks, but it’s still contains the proper cadence of natural speech. 

For some reason, it sounds so much more human than even Genji. It's not a thought that sits well. 

“Agent Hanzo?”

He forces himself to steer his thoughts back to your question. 

It is a tempting offer. 

When he heard that pancakes were being served, he somehow imagined the hotcakes that he’s more familiar with; they're twice the height of these _pancakes_ and half the diameter and many more times fluffier. His stomach tells him stop imposing and eat it already—it’s not as though the menu gave the option of hotcakes anyway. It’s not your fault he forgot the different between the two. 

“No, they are acceptable.” He takes the tray, and after a moment's hesitation, adds, “Thank you for your concern.”

“If they are not to your liking, please let me know.”

The echo is more prominent, more concentrated, but he has little time to think on it before your torso disappears from the space, allowing him the freedom to duck down and take a good look at the kitchen to see who is it that provides for them and to catch a glimpse of the elusive door to the Cellar.

He turns his gaze down at his tray instead, the cheerful arrangement looks back. If he thinks about it a little, he could see that the amount of pancakes is plenty. If he thinks about it a lot and reads into it, he could see that the tray was carefully arranged so that the chilled foods stay away from the hot ones and the utensils are in neither extremes. 

You're not a friend, but you're about the only being in this Watchpoint that cared very little about anything other than your job. A blessing, really, when everyone else seemed to have his broken life on the brain. 

It would be a shame to cause you any trouble. 

Unconsciously, he walks back to the group, who were talking amongst themselves. Likely gossiping. 

He sits next to Roadhog, the man served as a good barrier between himself and Junkrat, but that didn't seem to matter. 

“Whot—’ey! I didn’t get any oranges!” 

“These are mine,” he growls, keeping the tray far, far away from Junkrat’s extremely long reach which is made simultaneously short by Roadhog yanking the man back. 

“Let him eat in peace,” Ana says sternly. “Thank you, Mako.”

The large man grunts, mask still unreadable, but he sits taller between himself and Junkrat and becomes a bigger barrier than before.  Hanzo would have never guessed the Junker would take orders from anyone considering his reputation. 

“So, what's your plan, Hanzo? Chef isn't going to let you near the Cellar without a fight.”

“Let him eat in peace,” Ana says again, just as Hanzo is about to sling some sharp words at Fareeha. “All of you.”

“Fine, mom.”

Hana giggles behind her hand, fiddles quietly with her phone. For a moment, Hanzo has the peace he needs to quickly finish his food and leave before Ana allows everyone to again try to spring questions on him. 

Probably out of spite than anything else, he eats some of the oranges first. Vengeful glee wells up in his chest when he hears a muffled cry of disappointment and frustration. 

Fruit is incredibly hard to come by in Japan at a cheap price. It was almost a luxury that he took for granted when he was younger when gifts of fruit baskets were offered to their family by rivals and business partners alike. He didn't have much opportunity to eat it while on the run.

Sure, there were one-hundred yen stores that sold bunches of bananas and oranges for a dollar per piece, but those fruits were hardly juicy or ripe, incomparable to the jewels given to him when he was younger. It was not essential to his diet at the time and barely cost effective. 

(Though, he did indulge at one point and took a hypertrain straight to Tochigi prefecture to graze on their world famous strawberry fields in the dead of night. They were so sweet, so juicy; it quenched a forgotten thirst he had had for days.) 

These oranges though, were passable. Still nothing compared to the ones in his memories. 

He passes on the rest and moves onto his pancakes, pours some syrup on the edge, slicing a triangle into the thick stack, scooping some cream, and shoving it into his mouth. 

Immediately, he began salivating. 

Sweet.

Unbelievably light but with enough chew to be considered satisfactory. 

He’s had the pancakes made by you before, but each time, they’re different. (It was an unpleasant surprise to his tongue when he eats your pancakes from several weeks ago, expecting them to be sweet, only to find out they’re made of potatoes. He begrudgingly forgave the blunder—it’s his own, really—when you gave him some weightless, crunchy white cream dollops that he doesn’t know the name of.)

He hasn’t checked the menu to determine what type they were, but these were fluffier, milkier, a slight tang to it that’s offset by a hint of lemon and the sweetness of the syrup. 

He unabashedly shoves another generous cut straight into his mouth. 

_Click_. 

Hanzo’s head jerks up and he sees Hana laughing behind her hand, the other hand holding a phone. She tilts it toward the Amari family who both light up.

“Never knew you could look like that.”

Ana covers her mouth with a hand, but her cheeks smile for her. “You look so happy.”

“I'll send you guys a copy.”

Hanzo glares at her, ready to stand. “Do not dare.”

It bounces right off her, and she gives him a smug look, holding her phone at such an angle that he could see her still typing without looking. “Make me.” 

He can barely remember the taste of those pancakes after that—he was too busy trying simultaneously get Hana to delete the photo from her phone and keeping Junkrat from wheedling his way into the fruits on his plate. The Junker insisted on lecturing him on who is considered an acceptable target to steal from. He doesn’t know what tea he ordered anymore—Ana had ‘asked’ for some, which really means she demanded it in a polite manner that would mean his doom if he were to refuse. Fareeha watched with Roadhog, both silently judging them. 

Whoever said that meals taste better with other people is full of horseshit.  

Unbeknownst to him, your communicator goes off twice, demanding your attention. 

The first message is business-related, and you dump that straight into your calendar. 

The second is from Agent D.Va and you look rapidly between the camera images of the cafeteria above you and your comm, jaw slack. 

On your communicator is an image of Agent Hanzo, fork in his mouth, and the most blissful smile on his face. He almost seems soft, less of a hardened agent and more of a man who has just extended a hand to nourish their inner child. Like he’s made peace with himself. 

Pride and joy rushes through you, and you save the image as a careful reminder to yourself of why you came back to Overwatch despite the risks and consequences. 

A meeting is called sometime in the afternoon for all agents at the Watchpoint. Much to Hanzo’s relief, it seems that the time for idleness is finally drawing to a close.

Hanzo takes his seat furthest away from any windows and doors, and with the clearest view of the room. The nuance of McCree and Soldier: 76 sitting in roughly the same place as himself is not lost on him. 

Cowardly as it is, Hanzo could barely look at his brother when he arrives in the meeting room. Neither of them have really been in the same room since that day. The inaction does not seem to go unnoticed by other members, but to his relief, his brother does not make any attempts to reach out and no one says anything. 

Though, the empty seat in the room is a different matter. 

A window pops up on the giant screen overlooking the round table, Reinhardt’s face trapped in the little square. “Greetings, my friends!” 

Winston looks just a little exasperated. “Reinhardt, why are you not down here?” 

The giant looks a bit sheepish. “Ah, too much excitement this morning. My back couldn’t take it.” 

Hanzo looks away to feign innocence and to keep himself from thinking too hard about the way Reinhardt kept his name from blame. 

“Oh, I see. Sorry about that.” Winston clears his throat. “I hope you get better.” 

“I have the finest doctors here, no problem!” 

Hanzo could see Doctor Zielger press her fingertips to her forehead, leaning against the table and muttering something beneath her breath. The Amari family on either side of her each give her a pat on the shoulder. 

“Right.” Winston shuffles some papers around. It’s hard to tell if he really needs them or if it’s just for show. “Now then, since we have everyone here, I want to talk about our agenda. Athena. If you please.” 

A multitude of images appear on the screen, each of different areas and scenes. For the next hour or so, Winston talks about Overwatch’s future and direction. 

“And for the last time,” Winston says, throwing up a hand, “I especially want the prior Overwatch members to take extra care when leaving the base. Some residents of Gibraltar still recognize you and will likely report you if seen. The last thing we need is for the UN to get wise to our operations.” 

Torbjörn is quick to retort. “Hard not to recognize a talkin’ gorilla.” 

“Or someone with a giant claw,” Ana shoots back just as fast as she fires. 

Almost everyone chuckles at the banter. 

“Laugh it up, laugh it up,” the engineer grumbles. “Let’s see who fixes your weapons the next time you need it.” 

“Settle down, everyone.”

The meeting ends long after the sun has fallen, leaving some members more restless than others, but it gives everyone something to look forward to in the following days to come. For Hanzo, there’s a reconnaissance mission in the coming week, and then potentially an infiltration mission some time after that depending on how things play out. For everyone else, there’s various jobs to be done. He’s keenly aware of Genji’s assignments, an unease rolling in his chest and stomach as his brother is given the option of investigating something with Tracer. While it’s a relief that Winston has chosen not to place him on a mission with his brother, he knows deep inside that his behavior is nothing short of shameful, and that haunts him late into the night. 

He lies painfully awake in bed, unable to will his mind to stop chattering or replaying today's events. The memory of how Reinhardt pulls his back makes Hanzo scrunch up and the noise in his head gets louder. Fareeha and Junkrat run around in his head, a back and forth of goading and unwanted advice. When he tries to think of other things, only the promise of a mission and the intimate details wait for him at every turn. 

Even his stomach won’t let him rest, slightly unsatisfied with the offerings it was given. 

Dinner was a little lacking, so very different from the breakfast of this morning. (Lunch was a normal affair, quick and filling.) His requests for seconds, though usually granted, was of a smaller portion than usual. It’s childish and petty, but he can’t help but feel slighted. Just when he thought that you could potentially be his only ally in this castle of schemes and uncertainty. 

Speaking of which. 

He throws the covers off, skin itching with noisy thoughts that filter downward from his mind and infect the rest of him. 

Tea. While it won’t put him to bed, it will calm his nerves. 

He’s walking into the cafeteria when he decides that tonight he’ll have something more refreshing and soothing. There’s something called ‘moroccan mint’ that Ana introduced him several weeks ago that he took with sweetner. It was much better than that Koshary tea. 

The doors to the cafeteria open silently and he is almost at the terminals when the whole world seems to stop. 

The terminals are, for the second time, plastered with the word “closed” across their screen. 

He stares dumbly at them.

A flicker of anger ignites deep in his gut, and he growls in displeasure. 

He was here all day. Why was he not informed that the kitchens would be closed? 

Somewhere, a small voice of logic tells him that there’s no way you could have known that he would require tea at this hour. A more obnoxious part of him, sleep-deprived and irritated from the day’s already large pile-up of grievances, reasons that he comes by often enough at this time that you should know better. 

Seething and two seconds away from smashing a fist into the terminals, but still controlled, he’s about to turn away when he looks at the hole in the wall. 

The pitch darkness of the kitchen through the service window seems to suck him in like an abyss, calling to him like a siren, and he remembers his bet with the gunslinger. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

No. 

No one will be there to witness his crime. Athena has implicitly stated her stance on the matter. There will be no one to stop him. 

No, this was, perhaps, the most ill-conceived plan he’s ever had the displeasure of executing. (And that’s saying something considering the escapades that his brother got him into during their younger years.) 

It’s opportunity that brings him to this, not any extensive planning or careful calculations, and that does not comfort him in the slightest. Common sense and years of learned espionage tells him to wait for a more opportune time, but he knows that he is not dealing with armed guards or skilled fighters. You’re just a chef. A mere omnic or service bot who makes a nice stack of pancakes and usually has tea ready for him in the dead of night. 

He clenches his jaw, body frozen as he’s caught in between two instant crosshairs of thought. 

[Closed]

“ _Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!_ ”

_“Good luck, you’ll need it.”_

[Closed]

“ _It is good manners to thank the people who feed you_.” 

_“I dare ya.”_

He steels himself. 

**[Closed]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience, I'm hoping that the next chapter will come faster since that's something I've been waiting to write since f o r e v e r.
> 
> Fruit is surprisingly expensive in Japan. I really feel like I should have made a reference to this banana vending machine I saw in Shibuya.


	8. Chapter 8

The warehouse is busy with different people bustling around, chatting, carting items around into trucks, the thick smell of hot food (made even thicker by the steadily rising summer heat) hardly willing to remain contained in their boxes. A cap is pulled tight over your eyes and you remain by your truck tucked deep in the corner of the room, keeping your back to the rest of the crowd, pretending to inspect the ridiculously long handwritten list in your hands.

The loading takes a little longer than usual, but it can’t be helped. You had vowed not to make the same mistakes as the last few times and ordered more food just in case. (There’s a voice in your head that taunts you for your inadequate portion management that you quash with a childish ire.) This was for the protection of Overwatch. The shipments must be carefully timed and portioned out to avoid suspicion from customs and various markets here on Gibraltar. These long intervals you’ve picked masks your presence better and makes you more available to the agents.

You tell yourself it’s the optimal solution.

(There are days that you truly regret having taken Overwatch’s reputation and wealth for granted in the past—abundance of ingredients to play with and test, an unlimited budget for the best of equipment and staff; it is the stuff of recent dreams.)

Asim comes out from the shadow of your fully loaded vehicle and closes the shutters behind him, leaning heavily against his empty hand truck, his tank top thoroughly soaked.

“All done, boss.” He wipes his brow with a gloved hand and brushes his curly hair out of his face. “Man, Argus is lucky. She doesn’t sweat.” Behind you in the middle of the room, Argus Twenty stands out like a sore thumb in her semi-formal wear, giving orders and instructions to various people like a conductor. “Me? I feel like I just took a bath.”

“She’s an omnic,” you reply flatly, frowning over the list, “and you’re still on therapy.”

He shrugs, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “It’s still not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair? The price of fish,” you sigh, leaning heavily against your scorching truck. It shakes against the added pressure. “Even with negotiations and switching to a new vendor, we still had to eat an eight-percent increase.”

“Climate change,” Asim supplies bitterly. “You know it’s been bad lately, but it’s only going to get worse, they say, since the fish are migrating elsewhere and ruining a ton of businesses here. Do not get me started on cryogenically frozen fish or grains—that’s even worse. It’s hard just getting our share even with your negotiations.” He jerks his stubbly chin at the general direction of the rest of the warehouse. You turn just head slightly to see some people notice and wave, carts passing around them. A pang of welling pride and equally growing sorrow jolts your insides.

You smile at Asim instead, tugging the hat over your eyes further. “They like you.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“I can’t make people like you.” If you had that power, the world might actually be a much better place. “It’s all you. They like you for who you are.”

The man hides a shy smile into his fist, sealing it in there before looking at back at you solemnly. “If you hadn’t left, they would know you and like you, too.”

“I...I prefer it this way,” you say, resting your list against the lower half of your face. “I don’t regret my decision.”

Asim makes a noise of discontent. “Glad someone doesn't.”

“What was that?”

“What Asim means is that we'd wish you showed more consideration toward us.”

You wince at the sharp words and Asim give Argus a wave as she comes up behind you both, seemingly finished with her duties. She crosses her arms, staring steadily at you through the slits of her eyes.

“Sorry. I was really trying to keep this order lean, but…” You wave your hands helplessly before resting them over your mouth.

“No, not that,” the omnic starts. “It's just...it’s been several months since you have decided to lend your aid to them, dear."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Is it not time to return to us?”

Oh. This talk again. You frown, squaring up your shoulders. "They still need my help."  
  
"Until when? Until they've become established again or until they are dismantled?" You clench your teeth, sucking in a sharp inhale. "Please, my dear, the sooner you wipe your hands clean of them, the better."

“Argus,” you say exasperatedly, “you’re the one who said that you’ll go along with this. Please.”

“But not for this long. Two months, three, perhaps? This is too much. We have received rumors of more formers being taken by Talon. It’s only a matter of time...”

Is that why the agents are suddenly getting assigned missions? You will need to ask Athena about the details—it’s not your business and unrelated to your job, but...

“Argus is right, boss.”

You stare at Asim, the weight of something unpleasant in his eyes pressing down on you. “Come on, not you, too.”

“If Talon comes and gets you, everything’s finished.”

“I’m not an agent,” you remind him. “Chefs were never considered agents, so…”

Argus sounds far less patient now. “And under what basis do you believe Talon acknowledges such a distinction? What if they see you there and you become collateral? Will you wait until they’re all killed before you come back?”

Because there's always been that distinction. Because they're heroes. They're brave people who deserve better than a dogged death by an organization that thrives on the destruction of others. "I have confidence in their operations, and I'll stay there until they don't need me anymore."  
  
"And when will that be?”  
  
Beneath Asim’s accusatory glare, you open your mouth and draw a blank. You thought about this before. You pondered this before, but did you ever come up with an answer? Did you even want to come up with an answer? What did you tell Argus when you announced you'd be helping Overwatch?

"I don't know." The quiet confession leaves a terrible taste in your mouth.  
  
"You don’t—? Are you joking me?” Asim snaps, suddenly in your face. "I’m all about fighting for what I believe in, but not when so many people’s lives are on the line, when _your_ life's on the line."  
  
"We were prepared for the consequences when I decided—"  
  
"When _you_ decided! You didn't consult anyone else!”

“I consulted Argus!”

“After the fact.”

Your mouth hangs open at your omnic colleague.

“Listen,” Asim says, “I don't want you to give up everything so fast. You worked hard to get to where you are, to get”—he waves a hand at the warehouse—“all this established. There’s too much that can go wrong, the longer you keep this up. You know what the world will do to you if they find out?"

The unyielding pressure from both sides forces cruel words to shoot up to the surface, cocked on your tongue, words that would cut so deep you knew it'd kill them, but you barely manage to keep them trapped behind your teeth. Your heart races, your face flushes with the effort, and you force yourself to divert your eyes into the ground and collect your breath.

“I will take full responsibility when that happens,” you finally say solemnly, looking both of them in the face.

“Taking full responsibility by yourself isn’t even going to begin to cov—”

“—do you believe your life will cover the damage—”

The two of them stop abruptly, either having realized they’re causing a scene or there’s little point in continuing the argument. The omnic steps forward, a gentle hand on your tense shoulder, tugging gently at your sleeve where the embroidered image of a scaly heart sat.

“I apologize for being short, but we are concerned for you. Promise us. While you still have the chance, I ask you to please return to us. We cannot continue without you.”

"But…”

Asim holds you by the elbow, a stern look in his eye. “If it’s about the food and money, they can get it themselves. They’re not helpless. They don’t _need_ you. You’re not being kind, you’re being selfish.”

For some reason, those words had more force than the ones before it, striking something so very tender inside you that you choke on the harsh insults and threats you kept stifled inside. They rise with such a vengeance and ferocious speed, you have to yank away your arm and turn away and seek refuge in the cabin of your vehicle. You vehemently ignore them calling your name in urgent, helpless whispers.

You slam the door of your truck closed, fumbling with your seatbelt, and drive off hurriedly through the door with your cap tipped low. Your eyes burn and your skin feels like it wants to burst. You ignore the fading figures disappearing from your mirrors, the feeling of longing and deep-seated sadness solidifying and demanding your attentions.

Overwatch is not a mistake.

What you’re doing is not a mistake.

* * *

This was the worst plan (or therefore lack of) that he has ever gone through with, Hanzo decided while wedged up in a precarious corner of the ceiling.

Weeks of saying "thank you" to a tray and the fading echoes of a bell is just a token gesture of his gratitude, but he cannot escape the solemn timbre of his brother's voice, urging him to show his appreciation properly.

And how does he show it? By breaking into the one place he is not allowed in. If he’s honest with himself, he knows he could still leave and pretend he was never here. But pride is so very selfish that it will take away everything from someone else and still never be satisfied. It is so destructive, it will even kill its host and leave behind nothing. Not even itself.

Hanzo knows that it is bad, that it is all-consuming in no productive way, but the thrill that it gives, the little bit of power it offers for just a moment is so very tempting—he’ll have control of his life for a fleeting moment.  (After the moment’s passed, well, that’s a different story.)

You’ll have to forgive him for this (if you catch him, that is).

Surprisingly, there are very few places to hide in the kitchen and even fewer with a good view of the Cellar door. The ceilings are much lower than that of the cafeteria’s, compact and spartan. Everything was set up neatly in rows that lead straight from one end of the kitchen to the other, a wide breadth of space between each station for people to come and go without bumping into each other, and a dim light that light up the bottom of these stations and counters. Racks that stood against the walls were all wiry and without anything more solid than the mostly transparent containers that filled them.  

There’s no doubt this space was meant to hold more than a single cook, but despite that, there are no obvious hiding spaces at all.

Even more surprising, Athena did not try to stop him, didn’t even utter a word or sound an alarm as he slipped his way in here with little more than the clothes on his back. Perhaps he had an ally in the AI yet. Or maybe she’s waiting for the opportunity to gather incriminating evidence before presenting it to all to see.  

He resists the urge to sigh; sound echoes surprisingly well in this space. (It's not particularly surprising—most of everything in here is made of metal.) Neither the subtle rub of fabric or the wink of an eyelash is able to escape notice here, and he doesn’t dare move from his chosen spot.

There’s no telling when you’d be back, but historically, you’ve never missed serving breakfast even for risers earlier than himself, which means that he has another hour and a half at most. It’s more than enough time to understand this space and plan out his next course of action.

Slowly, he runs his eyes around the room, eyes having adjusted well enough to see the details.

His eyes lingers around the door he knows is his target. It’s a little larger than the four transparent doors lined up beside it. Those lead to small rooms, lined with the same sort of racks that were out in the kitchen, but they were bereft of anything except for a stray box or two and a sack of something. One of them had something a few familiar boxes lined up at the front—the picture of an orange plastered on one and a cow on another. Drinks, then, but far too few to be able to sustain the base for even a day.

He narrows his eyes.

Is that all the food in the base?

No, it cannot be.

A base with people whose appetites are like Zarya’s and Roadhog’s should always be stocked with food. There must be more somewhere he’s not seeing. In the Cellar, perhaps? If you store alcohol in there, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it could store other food items.

No, he shouldn't think so far into it—if all of them have been well fed up until this point, there's no reason for him to think beyond that. It's none of his business.

He redirects his gaze back to the Cellar door.

There’s a biometric panel is integrated directly into the steel, barely standing out among the smooth metal. The door itself looks deceptively standard, but judging by the implements on the door frame, it's a little more sophisticated than it's made out to be. No hinges. No gaps. No seams.

He drags his tongue slowly across his lip.

It smells of a challenge, and reminds him of an old teaching from so long ago: if it exists, it can be killed or destroyed. It has not failed him yet. (Though, there’s a nagging in his heart wants to remind him of a time when that was not true.)

The question is how discreet he wishes to be. While he is no thief, his skillset is closely aligned with one as much as he loathes to admit it. He’ll have to get close to the door, conduct his reconnaissance to determine just how much effort will be required to break through it.

If it managed to stand up against even the covert operation division of Overwatch, it won't be any small amount of effort to get inside. And for that gunslinger to speak well of you, your skills must not be so terrible either. It would be pertinent to take caution, maybe learn a bit more about you from this environment.

Everything else is rather spartan in its own way with little to indicate what could be beyond that door—everything here has a purpose, no more and no less. The floors are lined carefully with black rubber mats dotted with holes. Pots and pans were stacked neatly beneath some counters, all surfaces are clear of anything extra, the sinks at the very far end of the room near the service window seem to be clear of dishes—those are all stacked and lined up in their rightful places.

Though, he can't help but notice on one of the shelves, among the meticulously lined drinkware, there seems to be a small gap where several cups should be. Something nags at Hanzo’s mind about that space, but he's unable to place a finger on it. Maybe because it’s such a careless contrast compared to the rest of the shelves where everything is ordered and neatly aligned, no space wasted.

If this was anything to go by, he may have just developed a profile of you: detail-oriented; tireless; meticulous, and if he were to interpret this with his few interactions, he could even say that you are a very dedicated omnic, following your program with utmost devotion. It’s admirable.

Though, there cannot be that much to do in a kitchen besides cook and clean, now is there? But if that were so, where are you now?

Looking at this place, immaculate despite the hectic image that the action of ‘cooking’ conjures up in his mind and the number of customers you cater to, spacious despite the single omnic it holds, his impression of this space itself is simply _lonely_.

He dismisses the thought with a grim viciousness.

Omnics do not get lonely.

You likely connect yourself to Athena, anyway, spying on everyone and their appetites. There is no reason to align his sympathies with someone who hides in the shadows, watching everyone with such attentiveness, compiling data to use for (or against) them.

Without warning, light suddenly floods the kitchen and Hanzo has to tighten his grip against the walls, rapidly blinking the stars out of his eyes while biting back a groan.

You must have returned.  

A childish excitement buzzes just beneath his skin at the realization, his heart pressing so hard against his skin, he feels like it will burst with the pressure. He forces himself to calm—there will be plenty to do in the next few precious seconds.

To his surprise, it’s the Cellar door that slides open with a hiss rather than the swinging doors that led to the cafeteria. The speed is surprising considering how thick the door seems, if the door frame was anything to go by, it must be at least ten or fifteen centimeters—thinner than some bank vaults he’s seen in his day, but thicker than any standard door by far in this base. The frame shows that the door is much wider than it initially seems. It seemed to sink _into_ the wall  and will not be as simple as just slipping a piece of paper or jamming something in between the door and frame. Maybe he can get through from the other doors beside it? The ones that look like freezers?

From within the darkness emerges the beginnings of a shaky hover-trolley, stacked high with boxes that fill up the empty maw of the doorway with nary a gap. There’s a pause and a shuffle and one of the larger boxes shift. Hanzo dares crane his head out a little more. Are you stuck?

The trolley then comes through slowly and without the frame of the door holding everything in place, Hanzo can see how precariously everything is stacked. The room itself seems to take a sigh of relief when everything makes it into the room, wind rushing into the Cellar door. From his angle, he cannot very well see the person behind it. But the rapid speed at which the door closes tells him that you’ve stepped into the kitchen and the door will not remain open long enough for anyone to barge in after another person.

“Oh geez, I’m late, I’m late.”

That voice.

The faintest hint of an unconscious smile makes its way onto his face. He knows this voice. It is, without a doubt, _you_.

He’ll finally be able to lay his eyes on the elusive chef—you’ll no longer be a torso and a voice and a bell, but something he could finally put a face to blame if his food is inadequate. He’ll finally know the face of his opponent, the guardian of that rumored door.

“Come on, get it together, me. _Allons_ , _allons-y._ ”

Time seems to slow as the cart backs itself up just slightly and begins to turn. He hears the squeak of a boot against the rubbery floor, and a shuddering sigh. From behind the massive tower of boxes and containers, someone comes into view.

And Hanzo’s breathing stops short in his throat.

His thoughts dissolve into static.

You’re a _person._

The archer watches numbly as you begin to unpack the cart, taking box after box and spreading them out onto the closest countertop with single-minded determination and practiced efficiency. While you’re not wearing a chef’s uniform (instead, it's something darker and plainer with a greenish patch on the upper arm), he’s sure it’s you. There’s a level of confidence in the way you navigate this space, placing things with a familiarity that no one should have unless they’re here often.

Vaguely, it feels as though he’s no longer in his own skin or even in the same reality he was just in mere moments ago.

You are a _human_.

Not a service bot.

Not an omnic.

He should not be surprised, but he is. Suddenly, he snaps back into his own body and Hanzo finds himself furiously reanalyzing all the information he knows, or thought he knew; the facts are quickly becoming lies.

The tinny echo in your voice could easily be attributed to the metallic (and _lonely_ ) nature of the kitchen. The disappearances are not for maintenance, but because you’re _human_ and require rest. He is then reminded of those late nights when sleep escapes and taunts him like some mythical being and how you're always ready to prepare tea, and that you're already preparing breakfast for the early risers not even two hours later.

Even worse, he overlooked a ridiculously simple concept: omnics have no concept of taste, it is foolish. Their scant decades of existence on this Earth has not yet granted them the technological advancements necessary to distinguish taste, let along masterfully combine them into pleasing dishes that his stomach would not reject. For an Omnic to be a chef is not only ridiculous, it is laughable.

He wants to slap himself.

A disgrace.

The information clicks so cleanly that the implications behind it makes his head spin.

This was a terrible idea.

He should not have taken up the bet. For once in his life, he should have listened to his _younger_ brother, of all people, and left this alone. His heart is not made of steel or stone, and he knows he has better manners than to take advantage of someone who works so hard for something so foolish as a crutch for his own inadequacies.

He glances at the service window, so far away, and back at you who is struggling to keep one of the glass doors open to carry in a large cardboard box.

For a moment, maybe to soothe his own conscience, Hanzo thinks of going down to assist you. It will invite trouble, accusations, and your ire. If these kitchens were as sacred as McCree makes it sound, then he should pretend he was never here.

‘Like a coward,’ his mind whispers.

Hanzo grimaces and makes the amateurish mistake of leaning his head back against the wall a touch too hard.

“Who’s there?”

It’s only due to years of practice and familiarity with those words from the mouths of numerous victims that does not react badly to the sudden spike in his heart rate, that he does not shrink into himself or otherwise even blink, only instinctively isolating his breathing to his throat and clearing his mind of unrelated thoughts.

“Hello?”

As if he’ll answer with a bit of goading, but the thought is endearing naïve.

Beneath your breath, but still ridiculously loud and _tinny_ , you warn, “Jesse, I swear if that's you…”

Something in his stomach tightens and a chill settles into his chest, and he furrows his brow.

This is becoming risky. He has already gotten basic information regarding the door—there are more questions still (is the door protected by single-factor authentication or multi-layer? Multi-factor? Is it connected to Athena? Are there other security measures beyond the door?), but it doesn’t matter at the moment.

Hanzo waits, endures your slow searching gaze and various attempts to get him to speak until you’re turned around, away from the service window he plans to escape through. (The double doors leading into the kitchen from the outside are out of the question—they swing and there’s no guarantee his exit would not be heard or seen.) He moves carefully but swiftly along the wall toward his destination.

Maybe it was unfortunate timing. Maybe he’s lost his touch having been cooped up in this base without the urgency of needing stealth. Maybe you’re just that aware of your territory.

There are many ‘maybe’s, but it does not erase what happens next:

“Agent Hanzo!?”

Something heavy falls onto the ground, probably a package.

Hanzo curses to himself. Normal circumstances would have seen you dead, but these circumstances are far from normal—however, he does not intend to stick around long enough to find out what you will do. (Inside, he gives a brief goodbye to the pepperless-foods that he had the pleasure of eating during these past few months.)

The sound of metal clips the air from somewhere behind him as he drops to the ground and makes a straight shot for the window only two island counters and one static one away.

A sound behind him that sets off several alarms in his head makes him peek just underneath his arm and he’s surprised to see it: two wide steps and a lunge snaps up the distance between you both and you’re then in _his space_.

He finds himself moving without thinking, twisting onto the shiny metal surface that are now decorated with the imprints of his shoes to change direction, escaping a flash of silver that nearly clips him.

“My counter!”

To normal people, he would be an indecipherable blur at best. Only people accustomed to his speed, like Genji or Tracer, would be able to chase after him. It should be impossible for a chef who has never seen battle, who has not had to deal with anything faster than the flailing of a fish, who has been nurtured and protected in this self-made fortress.

He didn’t expect your head to whip around and follow.

He can see it now, a long silver ladle in your hand that strikes out at his foot. One flip puts him just outside your range, but it traps him against another counter and the spilled contents of a smashed box—oranges. He glances quickly to his side—the service window, his exit, is just a little distance away.

One strong leap and a jump is all it will take.

“The kitchen is off-limits, Agent Hanzo.”

Your voice is biting, a jarring contrast to the gentle and genuine concern you had shown up until this point. So, even a mouse will bare its fangs if cornered?

At this distance, he can finally get a very clear look at you and see the dark moons beneath your reddened eyes. There’s something slightly familiar about the gnarled look on your face, about the way you hold yourself despite your stance—squared into a straight line—that vaguely reminds him of the reflection that stands distorted in the head of the ladle you have pointed at his chest.

“Is that so?”

Livid may be the most appropriate word to describe you.

“Get out.”

Without waiting for him to comply or even an explanation, you shoot forward. He steps out of the way and then another when you twist and swing to follow.

One part of him that tells him to stay and test your strength. A more reasonable part tells him to take his leave peacefully now that he’s been seen. But there’s something, a pressure that bears down on his chest and up against his stomach that moves his feet, forcing him to watch and step out of your sloppy attacks.

Like an amateur, you broadcast your movements, your tight spirals are too wide and slow, the distance just slightly miscalculated and short of actually hitting him. Your steps are repetitive and predictable, hardly engaging, and too straightforward (likely the unfortunate nature of your art).  But the intensity behind those strikes and the sharpness in which they're delivered keeps him on his guard, forces him to retain focus. There’s a snarl to your lips and a burning in your eyes that, in his encounters with a mirror, seems far too familiar.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he remembers a story from his youth of a master of tea ceremonies against a samurai and wonders if this is how the story really should've played out.

The ladle enters his space. His reaction, wholly instinctual and for a moment screams ‘DANGER’, makes him smash it out of the way with the back of his hand. The momentum leads it out. You go with it, swoop the ladle down under and up at his chin. He ducks forward, right into your zone and grabs at your attacking arm.

Your retreat is far quicker than he would've given credit for.

But it was too hasty, unpracticed.

He could hear the popping of joints; the result of a rushed and undisciplined movement. You’re wincing, heaving, but still angry—there’s something about that look that makes him wonder faintly of its origins and its target.

Was that all?

As brief as it was, the display of power and skill of your level could not keep out even the weakest of the Overwatch members (and of those, there are very, very few he would dare consider such).

It’s a betrayal of his expectations most foul.

He had expected a challenge, not an insult. Insults thrown at him should always be returned in kind.

A smirk makes its way onto his face.

Very well. Bring it. He will show you the difference between you both in skill—politeness and gratitude be damned. You attacked first and refused reason, after all.

Hanzo waits for you to regain your footing and stance, waits for the ladle to come back up and steady itself. It's not as though you're a true threat; you’re just a che—

A flash of silver and the scratchy sting on his face shuts his thoughts up. What a sight he must make. He can’t help but touch his face where his skin meets beard, and pulls away with nothing but heat that drops into him like a fireball, igniting him.

That was a good lunge and a good retreat and a good strike. It was a good reminder.

“Get out.”

His smirk turns a touch carnivorous.

Yes, that was more like it.

Your expression morphs into one of more focused irritation. It’s far from a proper look for someone facing him. Those who know the expectations of the battlefield should at least compose themselves, not let themselves get saddled with worthless thoughts and rush through their movements like a fool.

Hanzo wants to crush that attitude. If he is truly your opponent, then you need to see him as one, not as a target or punching bag.

What carelessness.

What _arrogance_.

No. He takes a breath to calm himself. There’s no reason to get riled over a mere cook. But he can’t deny the strumming in his veins that call for the absolute annihilation of a mere amateur who dares thinks that they could ever match a master. He will show you where that arrogance will lead. This will be quick, this will be a challenge between his patience and his pride—you do not fit this equation. You are, after all, just a cook.

An unspoken signal—maybe you could see the insult on his face—brings you darting forth again, weapon raised and jabbing. There’s not much he has to do beside mind his space, mind your range, and keep a close eye on you.

All your following attacks are careless, easy to dodge. What happened to that one that managed to scratch his face? Was it because he was standing still or because you had a moment of clarity? As the strikes come, he finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into his thoughts and further and further away from the reality at hand.

Where are you looking, he wonders. What are you attacking? What do you see? What are you trying to strike? Because it sure as hell is not him and it annoys him just a bit.

The ladle's head enters his reach and thoughtlessly, he folds his fingers beneath the rim and he _yanks_ it. You pitch forward with a yelp. He nearly raises his foot to slam in into your jaw, but a moment of clarity forces him to slam it back down. No, getting lost in one’s thoughts is deadly, even if his opponent is hardly a challenge.

Almost losing your weapon didn’t deter you and you continue going after him, desperation coloring your attacks. What are you doing? If this drags on, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t crush you just to satisfy his pride, just to show he is superior and that your hands are ill suited to wield utensils made for cooking as weapons.

This has gone on long enough.

Once more, Hanzo lets the ladle punctures his space. He folds at the wrist, just under the ladle's head, redirecting it. You attempt a counter-parry, but with a firm chop, the ladle clatters to the ground, muffled by the rubber beneath your feet. To your credit, you do not attempt to pick up your ‘weapon’, instead choosing to retreat in one large step back. Are you giving up?

One inhale. You’re dashing forward again, swoop low to retrieve the ladle, and swing upward—too obvious. He steps inside your reach, pivots behind you. Adrenaline moving his limbs, nabbing your dominant hand and slipping an arm around your neck in a loose, but firm hold. His feet lock against yours. One false move and you’ll be thrown. The fact that you do not even bother detangling yourself shows that you know this much.

Not as foolish as he thought.

But he has won.

“Chef, cease this.”

His own voice, stern and sharp, bounces straight off the walls and equipment. Interestingly enough, he can see your spine straighten and body jerk as though fighting to follow and resist his request.

In a show of benevolence, he releases his hold slowly and steps back neatly. You turn, still alert, ladle held up steadily. Calm. He has won. There is nothing for him to prove anymore. “I do not mean any harm. I only came for tea.”

Your mouth twists and your expression slackens, but there’s no give to your posture.

“Truly.”

You narrow your eyes, and he thinks he’ll have to defend himself further when nearly a minute passes before the head of the ladle and your shoulders dip. He remains perfectly still while you slowly slip into a more neutral stance, the tenseness in your shoulders dissipating just a bit. Now that you’re calmer, it’s easy to see that you do not look entirely well. There’s a tremble in your hands that he hadn’t noticed before. A result of too much adrenaline? Weariness? Or something else entirely?

“If that is all,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes, “please wait outside.” You gesture at the door with a small swing of the ladle.

He blinks and tries not to let his surprise show.  

Is it that simple? Really?

“Will it be sencha today?”

“Ah, no. Moroccan mint.”

Naked surprise colors your face. For a moment, he thinks he sees the actual person behind the anger and the person behind the professional facade before it returns.

“I understand. With or without sweetener?”

“With.”

You nod and walk a short distance away, back never left exposed to him, and stop to face him once more. For a moment, he wonders what you’re doing before he realizes you’ve placed yourself between himself and the rest of the kitchen. It’s almost laughable—you do not have the skill to stop him even if you wanted to and you’ve just demonstrated that clearly. If he takes you out, there is nothing stopping him from accessing the Cellar door you’re protecting.

It’s almost disappointing. Almost enough to dampen his desire to uphold his part of the bargain with McCree. A treasure guarded by a weak guard cannot be so valuable.

He resists the urge to sigh. He’ll need to think about this later. The stack of boxes left forgotten and stray oranges on the ground catches his eye.

“Would you like some assistance with those packages?” he asks, gesturing with his chin.

Your face shifts from professional stoicism to shock to embarrassment to a poor attempt at maintaining your composure.

“Thank you for your offer, but I will manage. Please wait outside, I’ll have your tea shortly.”

“It would be no trouble. There are many boxes here.”

The makeshift weapon remains tight in your hands and determination begins to exude from your stance.

“I appreciate the offer, but this place is for chefs only. Please wait outside.”

A flicker of anger and irritation that he’s becoming far too acquainted with reignites inside his chest. Are all the members of Overwatch so unreasonable that they’d even jeopardize their own health? Reinhardt, you; who else on this base is so foolish?

“Do as you wish.”

At least he has gained information on the kitchen and the characteristics of the door; he’ll be better prepared for next time. (If the skill he saw tonight was the extent of your skill, he has nothing to fear. The cowboy’s warnings were far too exaggerated.)

He’s keenly aware of your watchful gaze on his back as the door slowly swing to a close behind him. Then the swinging doors finally rest and he can hear you working, he lets out the long-suffering sigh he's been holding in up until now, deflating.

Well, that could have gone worse.

He loiters around the cafeteria, watching the sun crawl against the ground with static in his mind until the bell rings and a tray with a familiar teapot and teacup slides into view—deep down, as illogical as it may seem, he’s just a little disappointed that nothing accompanies his drink. It feels strange walking up to the window now that he knows what lies behind it. Like some type of magic or illusion has been ruined.

“Thank you for your patience.”

He nods, nearly forgetting that you cannot see it. “No, thank you.”

He doesn't know how he could have ever mistaken you for an omnic. Your voice is definitely nothing like Genji’s. It’s the illusion of the echo and the fact that you talk to a wall that must have confused him. And your hands— _human_ hands—peer restly over the sill, tapping just as he’s about to pick up his tray. Do you often place your hands out in the open? Has he missed it all this time?

“Agent...Hanzo?”

“Yes, Chef?”

You take a shuddering breath before saying, “I...I apologize for the misunderstanding. I did not realize how important tea is to you. But the kitchens are off-limits to non-kitchen staff, so please understand.”

If he's playing the part of the fool, he may as well make it convincing. “It is inconvenient to wait on you for something like tea, Chef.”

The words draw a sharp inhale from you and tension to the air.

“These are rules, Agent Hanzo,” you say slowly, “I cannot allow that.”

“Rules set by whom?”

“The previous Head Chef.”

“If I am correct, this Head Chef is not here, and as such, you should make the rules.”

“I don't—I’m not—I…”

“Oh!”

Winston seems surprise to find anyone here at all, shifting awkwardly in the threshold between the hall and the room before he sheepishly pads his way in on his fists.

“Good morning, Hanzo. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hanzo couldn’t say that he expected the same and nods curtly.

“Tea, huh? I guess everyone takes their breakfast different.” Hanzo has no time to correct him when the gorilla turns toward the service window. “Chef, what’s for breakfast today?”

Hanzo winces as you splutter, remembering that his antics likely led to a delay in your schedule. (Well, you refused his help and decided to challenge him despite your lack of prowess; it’s not entirely his fault alone.) He can’t imagine in the few scant minutes you’ve spent preparing his tea that you had managed to put away those boxes or even started on preparing breakfast.

“That’s, um, I didn’t—I’m very sorry, but…”

Hanzo couldn’t stand to remain, the awkwardness of the situation tugging at him and bids a hasty leave, yanking the tray out of the window. Perhaps too hasty or perhaps it’s karma, either way, he could not say it was not well deserved.

The teacup wobble precariously and falls off his tray, rolling against the window sill and smashes to the floor, the sound rippling and tearing through any other noise in the cafeteria. Winston’s mouth drops open, spectacles slipping down his face.  

“Oh my.”

Heat creeps up Hanzo’s neck as he chances a glance at the service window. Your hands are frozen in mid-air. He watches as they come down slowly and your torso inches forward, a dull ‘thunk’ accompanying an abrupt stop; he definitely does not feel something squeezing the air out of his lungs when a weepy voice whispers, “...are you kidding me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your patience. As always, Hanzo is a terribly unreliable narrator and Chef needs a vacation. This chapter didn't quite turn out the way I envisioned it, but that's not always a bad thing. I hope everyone continues to enjoy and thank you for your support. 
> 
> (Many of your comments have left me in happy tears and I appreciate every single one of them very much. I cannot express in words how grateful I am to have received them. Thank you so much.)


	9. Chapter 9

Contrary to what others may think, Hanzo is not the cool, collected, rational man that he presents himself to be.

Genji could easily recount the times that his brother has flung something in anger after being forced to contain it for appearance’s sake or the way he sulks for days on end in that sort of irritating silence that he's come to know from being on the receiving end of such behavior for years leading up to the...incident.

Rage that once rattled at Genji’s remaining ribcage like a beast had ebbed away into a void-like weariness and then into the occasional spike of all-consuming fury that ate and ate _and ate_ at him until it extinguishes itself with little remaining other than the desire to sleep for a long, long time. Family, obligation, and his past became such a distant thing in Genji’s mind when he was taken in under Zenyatta’s wing. Prior to this, he obsessed over the idea of revenge, believing for years on end that he had done absolutely nothing to deserve the actions taken against him that day.

Things change, he supposed, especially when Winston initiated the Recall. Winston was concerned about the lack of agents that answered and asked Genji if he knew of anyone capable of taking on the mantle of being a hero. While no hero, Hanzo was one of the strongest he knew.

The idea was not his alone, of course, but he was not opposed to it.

He had been worried that his older brother would have delved far too deep into his self-destructive tendencies in these ten or so years of absence to listen to reason or to even continue living—he was not deaf to Hanzo’s betrayal and not immune to the snarky joy he felt, uttering a vicious 「It serves you right, you monster」that did not give him any satisfaction. His brother is not made of the stone that their elders had envisioned him to be. Genji supposes it's an equal parts luck and his brother’s pride that prevented Hanzo’s complete destruction.

It’s likely the same luck and pride that allows them to work cordially together for the few missions that Hanzo had been asked to accompany. It was almost as if nothing had changed. Until they had again, like his older brother had slipped into reality and finally come to grips with the exact situation he’s landed himself in.

It gives Genji a sort of nostalgic headache to be the target of Hanzo’s silent treatment again. He had been prepared for it, though, giving his elder brother the space he so required to finally process the situation he had landed himself in. (Their initial contact was going well, far too well for it to have been able to last long.)

Even if Hanzo will not communicate with _him_ , at least the company of Overwatch could be trusted to keep his brother anchored. There’s no mistaking the way he treats some of the members—some with the strict type of respect reserved for those sitting higher in a hierarchy, some with genuine kindness, and only one or two people with a sort of brief unguarded playfulness that Hanzo rarely allows himself to have. (And if Genji were being truly honest, it was a little bittersweet.)

So when Lena tells him in confidence that Jesse had made a bet with Hanzo involving the kitchen, he had to worry that his brother would soon be neck deep in something reckless in his attempt to cope—funny how the tables have turned after all these years. The cyborg is almost tempted to ask the man what his intentions with his brother are, but thinks better of it. Jesse is known for making calculated trouble, and can be slippery when he feels like it.

And although it's only you remaining in the kitchens now, there’s no doubt you’re dyed in the ideals of your former mentor.

Gabriel often spoke of it and Genji didn't bother caring too much until now: the kitchen staff will defend their territory to the death and to pry their treasure of them if you dared, but all have big hearts made to give and give _and give_ regardless of the crimes committed against them. Hanzo likely does not know that, however, and would not treat you with the same sort of careful reserve he does with the other members (each with their own strengths and abilities that could be interpreted as ‘threatening’)—you’re a chef, and if he knew his brother, someone that he could not see as a threat requiring him to put up any mental shields against.

Maybe this type of contact, this type of discourse, is what Hanzo needs.

And what sort of brother would he be if he didn’t meddle a bit?

* * *

The next few days before his first mission in a long time are perilous. While he is no coward, Hanzo did not know how you would react to him ordering food after his shameless (though disguised) attempt to infiltrate the kitchen.

To his surprise and suspicion, however, all his interactions with you have remained the same—“Thank you, Chef.” “You’re welcome, Agent Hanzo.”—almost as though that night in the kitchen never happened. Though, if he dared let himself think it, the food may even be a higher quality than before—the sauces more flavorful, the food is fresher, the flavors a little more bold. It’s likely his imagination, but he feels no shame in ordering seconds and there is no issue with those orders, either. However, it does not keep him from checking his food over, turning ingredients over and inspecting your dishes until they have gone lukewarm and eating in small bites.

Even more baffling, no one else mentions his attempt, instead just giving him raised eyebrows that simple say, “I’m waiting.”

The only indication that that night ever happened was the stinging underneath his beard where the rim of your ladle grazed that’s little more than an echoing throb.

He finds himself contemplating it.

Hanzo was careless, unfocused in the face of an adversary he seems unworthy. It’s a bad habit, his teachers had told him. Even the weakest of creatures will bare their fangs when cornered, and yet, he had constantly been letting down his guard and catching himself in the act. He only remembers your eyes and the expression on your face that looked too painfully familiar.

While making preparations for the upcoming mission—scouting with Satya and retrieving some items from an informant in America (McCree was mercifully assigned elsewhere)—Hanzo concludes that the chefs must have been either taught to fight (if one could even call the reckless jabbing of a _ladle_ ‘fighting’). A strange weapon of choice especially when you’re surrounded by knives and other utensils that could better serve as a weapon. Judging by your skill, you either have not trained in a very long time or you were not trained very well from the beginning. It’s a gross miscalculation on your part if your intentions were to protect the door. It’s baffling how anyone would think your level of skill would be able to defend against a whole base of agents, or why no one has ever attempted to break in yet.

McCree (and everyone else) must have misjudged you and your abilities or there's something he's not seeing.

He suddenly feels like a pawn in a game, a feeling so eerie familiar, it makes his skin crawl and his lip curl. It makes no sense why McCree himself will not try when your prowess is practically non-existent. McCree, based off their training sessions and scarce missions together, is more than capable of taking you out without trouble.

For a moment, he’s tempted to think there _is_ no treasure, that he's being played for a fool so that everyone can laugh at his failures again, but he remember his encounters with Fareeha, Genji, and Ana who all say otherwise. It is unlikely that all of them would be dragged into some ridiculous scheme (though he cannot dismiss it as a possibility).

A change in tactics might be prudent, he muses.

The night before his mission, he finds himself venturing to the kitchen in the middle of the night for the first time since finding out you were _human_ ; he had tried to grit his teeth and contain himself to his room whenever the feeling of something jittering in his veins strikes now—he does not need tea from the kitchen. It is a luxury that he’s gotten far too accustomed to far too quickly when he has perfectly good (stale) tea bags among his belongings. He had let himself become too _spoiled_ , like a child, like…

The door opens and he stops in his tracks.

Mei, in her pajamas and her hair sticking out every which way and looking so very undignified, chatting at the window. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved that it’s not him that is responsible for keeping you from your sleep or annoyed that other people are doing so. He's quick to dismiss that thought, however. This is your job. There is no reason to feel excessive sympathy for a person doing what they're supposed to do.

She seemed very absorbed in talking to you and doesn't seem to notice his presence—it’s funny just how much focus she can have for something as simple as a conversation. Cynically, he thinks that it wouldn’t be difficult to end her if any assassin chooses so. It’d be a huge loss to the world of ecology (and to the world in general), however.

As he approached, he can see that the scientist holds wrapped packages held together by string. It reminds him almost of the onigiri wrapped in bamboo wrapper—ones that he would keep tucked into his clothes when he was out on missions in enemy territory. Food there is never guaranteed to be safe (or guaranteed in general), so it was prudent to have some rations on his person.

"粽子! Oh, I missed these."

Mei’s face lights up as she speaks. Hanzo almost smiles. The scientist’s enthusiasm is always infectious, her smile even more so. In a way, her being here reminds him that there is still good in the world, people who will try their best to save everyone, people who are still naive enough, but strong enough to express their emotions and believe in the best in everyone.

"Oh! With the egg, too? Thank you, Chef! I'll be sure to bring something back for you."

He can't hear what you're saying, but he can see your hand peeking out of the window, waving—' _no, it's not necessary_ '—and gesturing—' _it's okay_ '. Hanzo wonders why he has never noticed it before. You seem to have them out often enough to prove you were human. Has Overwatch dulled his senses or did he just care so little about the faceless chef—not so faceless now—that he just never took notice?

"Oh, Hanzo!"

"Miss Mei."

In the beginning, he had called her Dr. Zhou, fitting of her status and title. At her vehement and animated insistence that they were _friends_ and she prefers him to use her name like anyone else, it eventually led to compromise.

“What are you doing up so late?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

Mei looks down for a moment, contemplative, before beaming a smile right at him. "I am going back to Liangjiang to meet up with a colleague and to visit my family, so I wanted to drop by for some food to take with me before I go.”

_Family_.

Hanzo could only blink, the distinct feeling of slipping into a different plane of existence pulling at him. Family. He’s never heard Mei mention her family before, didn’t know what it was composed of, didn’t know her relation with them—it must be good if she’s going out of her way to see them.

“I see. Good luck.”

The words feel awkward in his mouth. Good luck. What is he wishing her luck for? Her family life likely isn’t as screwed up as his own. Most people’s families, he had long realized, were not so dysfunctional as his own—where dinner talks consist of politics, territories, war strategies, where birthdays are celebrated with lavish gifts and shows of power while sitting at the head of the room with legions of people kneeling, where fun is comprised of sparring sessions and listening to your enemies appeal for your favor and peeling back the layers of greed and self-preservation to see the miserable creatures that lay helpless inside.

Mei didn’t seem to notice his odd choice of words. “Thank you! I'll be gone two weeks or so. Is there anything that you'd want?”

His immediate reaction is _pineapple cakes_. The little ones from Taiwan. Chunks of pineapple in that gelatin that's sweet but not excruciatingly so, wrapped in a crumbly skin like the shortbread Lena brings back occasionally, but much more moist. Just the thought of them makes his mouth water.

“No,” he answers instead, swallowing down the suggestion. “Do not trouble yourself.”

“Oh, nonsense! I was planning on getting souvenirs for everyone. Is there any food you’d like?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to speak his desires. “I have all that I need here.”

There’s a twinkle in Mei’s eyes that could just be a reflection of her glasses. “Well, all right, I'll think of something.”

He's about to protest a second time when she asks again, “What are you doing up so late?”

“I was thirsty.” The excuse sounds incredibly lame to his own ears, but it’s much better than saying that he could not sleep because he feared what lurked in the recesses of his mind.

“Oh, sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to take up your time.”

There really isn't anything for the woman to apologize for, but she seems to feel compelled to make herself scarce for a transgression she did not quite commit.

“Good night, Hanzo. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Good night, Miss Mei.”

She leaves quickly enough, and Hanzo returns his attention to the surprisingly empty window.  You’re no longer there, having long abandoned them to their conversation.

Hanzo does not know whether to say it’s rather professional of you to leave them to their ‘private’ conversation or to have left your station in the presence of a customer.

Curiously, he peers into the kitchen, sticking his head slowly through the spacious hole. From this angle, the Cellar door is still hidden from view. The doors beside it that look like they lead into a walk-in freezer are now fully stocked with all types of boxes and seem to be overflowing with various contents. Ingredients for their meals, no doubt.

“Can I help you, Agent Hanzo?”

You come into sight from a blind spot in the kitchen, oven mitts in hand.

“Chef,” he answers as flatly as possible and retracts his head like he wasn't trying to scope out the area. “I was wondering if you were still here or if you had gone off before I could order.”

You splutters, much to his satisfaction, and reply hastily, “I would never—so long as my customers still require me, I will be here.”

“Hm.”

He pretends to busy himself with reading the  menu, skimming over the ‘Chef’s choice’ listed all the way at the bottom of the tea list. He could easily skip over it as he had so many times before; he knew what he wanted. It could be guilt, however, that makes him pause over the option. A chance for you to get at a sliver of retribution before he leaves on a mission. He would be putting himself at your mercy, but he is nothing if not unshakable. (Others would beg to differ and he’d like to silence them all the same.)

Tonight, he makes the daring move of selecting it and waits.

It's lucky the cafeteria is so silent; he can hear everything from the kitchen. A quiet yet excited gasp and the hurried yet rhythmic workings of the kitchen: the running of water (...two, three, four beats), the clicking of a stove (...two, three, four), then silence. And the unscrewing of a cap (one, two), and the sounds of utensils; clack, clack (three, four).

There’s a sense of calm that quiets everything in him as he listens. Hanzo catches himself counting. There's a beat to your works that he's never really noticed before, not that he's ever given it much thought. Previously, you were background noise that he cared little to know about, but now, knowing you are human and up at this hour, your presence has become more pressing, more demanding of his awareness. Even your steps, as muted as they are, follow this rhythm. Maybe his mind is attempting to make up for the inattentiveness he's had for his environment and is attempting to cram every bit of information he could glee from you into his brain. Maybe some part of him just feels bad. Regardless, you were an entity he's never considered before and as always, that could be very dangerous in his line of work.

The sound of the bell signals the end of his musings and the slide of the tray, also on beat, ends the unconscious counts on a four.

Instead of the teapot and teacup he expects, there's a large mug with something milky-looking and a square treat that is still bubbling just a bit. It looks to be some type of steaming, wet, spongy thing that looks like a cross between _tamagoyaki_ with an uneven crust and raisins. It looks borderline unappetizing, but he won’t risk asking and making a fool of himself.

“It’s bread pudding,” you supply.

Now he really isn’t sure if you could read minds. Perhaps he paused too long at the window or you were really able to tell what he was thinking, but the information does not soothe him in any way. _Bread pudding_. He cannot help the way he grimaces at the idea of it—how can bread be pudding? Or vice versa?

Or maybe he overestimated your professionalism and you’re getting back at him.  

But you haven’t served him anything he truly disliked yet, so there’s little reason (other than the fact he tried to break into the Cellar) for him to distrust anything you’ve given him.

“Agent Hanzo?”

“Yes?”

“You have been...checking your meals lately, may I ask why?”

Hanzo finds that he is not as surprised as he should be. You are, as he thought, ridiculously attentive.

“You are not angry about my trespassing?”

You raise your hands up, one holding an elbow and the other straight up as though to hold your chin in thought. He swears he could almost hear the moment the implication clicks in your head.

“Oh. _Oh_!” You wave your hands erratically. “We chefs would never tamper with your meals. It's against the rules. And a waste of food.” You mutter that last part beneath your breath before continuing. “Even I am angry, I would never do anything to your food that you disliked. I swear it.”

Maybe he underestimated your professionalism.

“But you are still angry.”

“I could never be angry at someone for trying to feed themselves. I was…irate, yes, but that was history. I...remembered some things and...unfortunately, I have taken out my anger on you.” Then, even softer and more sincere, “You didn't deserve that. I'm sorry.”

“No, you do not have to apologize.” It's he who should apologize, but he can't quite form the words. “Is there a reason why no one is allowed in the kitchen?” Hanzo asks instead, casually. “A reason why this rule exists?”

Your torso shifts around, an uncomfortable hum strangles your words.

“The...kitchen must be kept sanitary at all times and there have always been reports of people filching food, so…”

While he's sure your words are partial truths, you're also a terrible liar, almost as bad as Winston. That's fine, this means he has a good chance of getting information out of you later. Patience is key.

His lips quirk up. “So you mean to say we are untrustworthy and dirty?”

“No!” you shout. “That's not what I mean! It's just...we have a very strict code in here from the old days and I'm just trying to keep it together.”

Tradition, yes, he would know a thing or two about that and upholding it. Instead of answering, he takes a thoughtful sip of the milky tea—the chef’s choice—and almost immediately, he's struck by it's sweetness.

It's creamy, rich, fragrant, and a bit sweet that reminds him of royal milk tea, except different. Like he's consumed a mouthful of flowers, but it's not unpleasant. He takes another hearty sip and it settles comfortably in his stomach. Something like this could put anyone back to sleep. Maybe he could have this another time.

“How is it?”

An underlying excitement and eagerness betrays your attempts at remaining neutral. The archer is reminded of a puppy, one who seems all too eager to please.

“It is acceptable.”

He could almost hear the smile in your voice and finds himself wondering what you look like with one—all he knows is the anger and the weariness of your features that's already fast fading from his memory—before dismissing the idea with deadly swiftness.

“Oh, excellent. And the bread pudding?”

The slice of _bread pudding_ wobbles when he presses it with the back of the little fork you've provided and seems to ooze just the slightest bit. It smells nice, but just looks plain unappetizing.

Hanzo braces himself and cuts a piece, shoving it into his mouth and chewing quickly. Though, his movements slow and Hanzo ruminates on what he’s eating.

It's warm and sweet, almost on the side of too sweet and the choice of pairing this tea with this _bread pudding_ is questionable but there's cinnamon and raisins and it's bouncy and there’s a slight crunch and—

“Delicious.”

He almost chokes when a resounding “phew!” echoes in the kitchen.

* * *

Hanzo and Satya board the Orca late in the afternoon for the maximum amount of cover with the blessings of the other agents who are soon to go off to their own missions.

The trip is many hours too long. The only consolation is, to his surprise, that you had packed them lunches—small, neat sandwiches that's neither soggy or too tough with different fillings each and a cup of hearty broth and other side dishes—in sophisticated lunch boxes that may have once been a relic of an organization that barely exists. It could be a mark of change, then, that this is really it. They're _Overwatch_.

There's even a small cooling compartment for dessert: tiny fruit tarts that look like they belong on a sauce-decorated plate of a single-star restaurant than in the dinky little trapdoor in a lunch box. It tastes like it, too.

It's a far cry from the ration packs Soldier: 76 had distributed to them this morning. He shudders to think of what is in them, swearing to secretly discard them somewhere on the ship before they land. One look at Satya says that they are of the same mind, especially with the way she holds the bland packages like it personally offended her.

Satya gives off the impression she’s very used to having things a certain way. For Hanzo, it’s both an irritation and a relief. She understands the need to have a routine, the need to have beautiful plans, and tolerates his insistence of sticking to a particular method even if she does not agree so long as he is able to prove that he is correct. Though, after working with her on few projects around the base and a mission or two, he finds himself deferring to her for certain things.  

Her sense of visual balance and her ability to create things at her fingertips makes her a valuable ally. More than once, he had caught himself _staring_ at her work that shifted from nothing to some so structurally sound yet so delicate, a motion of Satya’s mechanical fingers would crush the creation in a second.

There really aren't that many people Hanzo would say that he preferred working with, but Satya ranks high on the list (if only for the fact that she _makes_ lists and mentally has every aspect of the mission organized like an itinerary).

After a lengthy discussion with her on the ship to review the mission details, he's almost confident this mission will see no distractions.

Which was too much to hope for, apparently.

Everything within the first day had gone smoothly. They had made contact and were about to meet their informant at a determined location. Then nothing went well after. Truthfully, the challenge was not unwelcomed. (Satya would disagree.)

There was a close call while meeting with this informant with some unexpected 'guests’, and he had run out of arrows. In desperation, Satya crafted him a few out of hard light for him to at least do some sort of damage to their pursuers—likely Talon-affiliated, but neither of them are quite sure. Their informant got spooked after the attack and it took too long to find her again.

Between quick purchases of street food (guiltily enough, Hanzo did manage to sneak some alcohol into his purchases) and trying to find this informant again and running from pursuers, Hanzo really cannot wait to get back and get a proper meal into his stomach with some actual tea.

Taking Satya’s seemingly perpetual grimace since this mission went south, Hanzo is sure that she feels the same and then some.

* * *

The days on the base were quiet without some of the agents around, but no less busy. The time you would have used for serving the agents are easily replaced with other things; the kitchen needed its weekly deep-clean, contracts had to be renegotiated, menus had to be created, ledgers had to be edited, in-person conferences had to be attended, the agents’ health has to be managed, meetings, and so much more.

All this work makes running a restaurant look like a joke.

After putting out some boxed lunches and dinners onto the service sill for everyone, each marked with its respective agent’s name (barring the ones you know will not be returning soon), your communicator beeps, reminding you of your next appointment—another negotiations meeting, likely a shitty sales pitch from someone who doesn’t even know the industry all that well—and you’re tempted to just ditch it so you can catch a moment of rest.

Instead, you force yourself to thumb through your pictures, your second greatest source of strength: a happy Agent Junkrat with his face stuffed full, teatime with the Amari family, lunchtime with Winston and Agent Tracer, and then there was Agent Hanzo, fork still in mouth and eyes closed with the faintest of smiles.

A warm, raw feeling entangles itself with the dull pang that seems to be ever persistent in your stomach. It travels up into your chest and _squeezes_ hard.

“ _We chefs exist for them. We die for them.”_

You pocket the communicator. With a final adjustment of your jacket—much more formal and well-fitted—you set off to depart the Watchpoint, chin held high.

* * *

They return on the Orca with the hard-won mission objective in their hands. Tracer greets both of them, too cheery for either agents, and hands them lunch boxes that must have travelled for hours to get to their hands. He only feels slightly bad that he does not have the appetite to eat it immediately, squirreling it away into his belongings for later so he can work with Satya on the mission report until their landing.

Their return is marked by the rise of the sun and jetlag.

Hanzo skips breakfast and lunch entirely in favor of a briefing with Winston and Satya and then a shower and some sleep. He finds himself waking up nearing midnight, but without the jittery feeling of suffocating and fear. Instead, it’s the untimely rumbling of his stomach. It reminds him of the terrible street food he’s endured on the mission, though Satya had more to endure than he—at least he ate meat.

Strangely enough, when he bumbles his way into the kitchen, the terminals read ‘Closed’ again. Hanzo regards them carefully—it’s far too soon for them to be closed. While he is not here all the time to qualify his theory, there’s something about the timing that feels too off.

A trap, perhaps?

To test his theory, he approaches the window, ignoring the stacked boxes—likely dirty dishes from another Overwatch agent’s trip. “Chef? I wish for tea.”

There’s no answer.

The kitchen lights are dimmed, but not shut, indicating that you are likely still around. How curious. He would turn away and leave you be, but his stomach grumbles once more, announcing its demands.

“Athena.”

The response is immediate and all around him, echoing in the vast cavern of the mess hall. “How may I assist you, Agent Hanzo?”

“Is the chef available at the moment?”

She pauses as if checking. “Affirmative. Would you like me to pass on a message?”

“No, that’s fine. I would like to contact the chef myself.”

“I’m afraid I cannot provide you the chef’s information for privacy reasons.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes and repeats slowly, “ _Privacy_ reasons?”

“The chef is considered a civilian and therefore Winston had requested that communications be kept at a minimum.”

The skepticism that’s been building these past few months again grows by leaps and bounds. What is that gorilla thinking? If he didn’t want a civilian involved in the first place, then why are you even here? “That’s ridiculous.”

“My apologies. These are the rules set in place.” Again with archaic rules. “The only way would be to have the chef personally provide contact information.”

Hanzo resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Very well. Let the chef know I am here.” _And hungry_.

“Understood.”

The AI leaves him alone and in silence. Hanzo takes the time to lean into the sill, poking his head into the kitchen area. Since you have the audacity to make him wait, he may as well scope the area. Though, there's very little to observe. Everything is immaculate as always, gleaming.

He can hear something slide open; it’s familiar and he soon recognizes it as the Cellar door accompanied by the hurried rustling of clothes.

“Agent Hanzo.” You sound slightly breathless, though that’s quickly tempered. “Welcome back from your mission.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm glad you've returned safely. How may I help you?”

There's the obvious stiff politeness that he is sure is nothing like how you are really like, but he’s not here to endure your posturing or to make friends anyway.

“I would like to order dinner.”

“Please use the terminals t—”

“They're _closed_.”

Confusion colors your voice when you repeat, “Closed? The terminals are closed?”

For a moment, you disappear from the window and all Hanzo hears is silence followed by some nonsensical grumbling before your torso returns.

“I apologize, I must have shut them down when I…” You trail off, leaving him to wonder what exactly you were doing before you arrived. “Let me turn them back on.”

“Anything is fine,” the archer snaps. “I just need dinner.”

“Oh, of—of course. We have three different entrees tonight, our offerings are a seafood fri—”

“I said, ‘anything is fine’.” he grounds out. If he has to repeat himself one more time…

“...I understand. Please give me a few minutes.”

He lets out a long suffering, but silent, sigh. He knows you’re doing your job, but this is too much. You shuffle into sight a small distance into the kitchen and toward the large freezers, shoulders hunched down and looking overly defeated, like a puppy that just got scolded or beat. He suppresses a grimace, knowing it’s his doing and maybe his words were brought on by hunger rather than reason. Genji had always complained of his behavior when he hasn't had sufficient food.

He watches you pull out everything you need, or seem to need, and spread it out on an island counter that gives him a good view of everything you’re doing. You seem just as weary as the night he went into the kitchen, but the anger is not there. Just looking at you, he gets the sense of an overwhelming exhaustion that likely cannot be solved with just a night’s rest. Maybe...just maybe he should retract his order and eat the boxes food he didn't eat during his return home.

But then, you take a breath and exhale, slow and methodical like a musician before a crowd right before a performance or a master before a fight.

And then it begins.

Cutting board and a knife are pulled onto the surface. Your hand shoots out and there goes the click-click-click of the stove and the slam of a metal skillet. In one hand, the knife comes up, and the other feeds ingredients onto the board. _Thu-ka-thu-ka-thuka-thuka-thukathukah_ —whatever you’re chopping becomes minced in an instant, the knife rocking back and forth with relentless precision. A loud scraping sound signals the finish to that ingredient.

Without even glancing over, your free hand shoots out and grabs the next ingredient, a poor onion which is also reduced to nothing in a matter of seconds before you put down your knife and drizzle oil into the smoking pan beside you as you turn and reach for something else.

Hanzo can’t help but stare at your technique and the efficiency in which you use and know your space, he finds he barely breathes as you continue this storm with the same striking rhythm he founds himself counting to before he left for his mission.

Most strikingly of all, however, is probably the look of laser focus on your face. There’s none of the shamed timidity or false professionalism, just pure and unadulterated you. It reminds him a little of his archery teacher, whose wrinkled face would change from harsh lines to a sort of ethereal calm and cool tranquility, unwavering even under the most intense of pressures as she made her mark.

Is this how you make all their meals? With the same conviction as the master of any other craft?

Loud crackling and hissing breaks him from his reverie and the kitchen is flooded with the thick aromatics of onion that’s topped with a sweep of salt and sugar. His stomach growls fiercely and he swallows. Patience. You give the pan a quick toss, the ingredients arching up gracefully in the air and landing without a single piece lost.

He hardly notices himself uttering, “Impressive.”

There’s a pause in your rhythm that brings his hunger rushing back, and in that moment, he thinks that all that you’ve done has been ruined, but then you respond with a voice that sounds almost hopeful. “You think so?”

Hesitantly, he replies, “It is.”

He’s seen people cook before at fancy dinners where they make their food in front of you, but those people always glanced at the audience, gauging their interest with a narcissistic greed in their eyes that always ruined his appetite. Even worse was the clapping and the cheering for a particularly flashy and cheap trick that contributes nothing to a mediocre meal. The best of the best would never look at their customers that way, keeping to themselves and turning all their focus on quality, lost in their own world where there is nothing except themselves and the ingredients they prepared.

Hanzo can’t see your face, not with the way you turn to open a fridge door right underneath your tabletop, but he can hear some blooming pride as you speak.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Agent Hanzo. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for all the others, however.”

“The others?”

“Oh, yes.” You seem fairly content, now deveining shrimp with a new knife, much smaller than the one you previously had, but with the same tempo you've been sporting. “I learned everything from the other chefs here in the old days, but especially from Head Chef.”

Again with this mysterious ‘Head Chef’.

"Did you learn how to...fight from this Head Chef as well?"

Not that you were particularly _good_ at it, not enough to call it ‘fighting’ anyway; this is just 'friendly' conversation, admittedly not unlike the manipulation techniques he was taught so many years ago, though he never would have guessed he’d use it for something so mundane (if you could call a hidden treasure ‘mundane’).

Tossing the shrimp in some combination of spices, you give a thoughtful hum. "The Head Chef forced me to learn it."

“And what for?”

The bowl of shrimp is set aside as you give the pan another shake and a quick turn of a spatula. You scrape off something from the chopping board and dump it into the pan, the smell of roasting garlic bursting forth.

You seem hesitant to answer, not that Hanzo is surprised in the least. You rinse your hands and wipe them against a towel at your hip before picking up your knife again.

“Well, you see, Head Chef Richard was actually an Olympian fencer at one point.”— _chop, chop, chop_ —“We all used to laugh at how stereotypical that was, but it was because his father was a previous champion. Head Chef gave it up for some reason and pursued cooking. No one really knows why." There's a brief pause in your chopping before it resumed again, steady, grounding. "But he didn't forget fencing. He taught it to me, I guess, because he couldn’t let go of it."

“And you fought me because of what he taught you?”

There’s a stutter to your cutting and he knows he’s slowly cornering you, but holds off on savoring victory just yet.

Your voice is surprisingly weak. “You...surprised me that night.”

“I recall you mentioned a rule; non-agents are not allowed in the kitchen.” He leans forward onto the sill a bit more. “Is that not why you attacked me?”

He could practically hear the gears turning in your head as you desperately try not to reveal what he already knows (and doesn’t know). It’s almost...cute to watch you struggle.

“Well, sort of…”

“Why is that, Chef?”

The chopping stops and sizzling begins, a new mixture of aromas—herbs and vegetables that he can’t name—permeating through the window. Then the shrimp are thrown in as well and the pan hisses violently, but you do not answer. No matter what you throw into the fire, the sounds won’t be enough to cover the subpar deceit you’ve set up.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, Junkrat’s warning of, “Y’don’t mess with the bloke that feeds ya,” rings out above his ambitions. With his food (and his stomach) at your mercy, it’s best to heed that advice now, but a professional promise from you to ‘never tamper with his meals’ only serves to soften that blow.

Maybe he can leave you alone on the Cellar’s secrets. For now.

"Was fighting a necessary skill for a chef?" he asks instead.

The change of topic is clearly welcome and the tension in your shoulders visibly fades away as you consider his question in between stirring and throwing in some colored rice.

“I don't know. There were many chefs here who knew how to fight, though. We had some ex-cons and some really amazing people." You laugh to yourself but the sound bounces straight into his chest, a strange feeling of fullness filling him up.

“There was sous chef Mori, he knew jiu jitsu, I think. Our rôtisseur, Fuchs, was great at chopping stuff up and boxing. She was arrested for major fraud but ended up here somehow. Oh! And patissiere Woo, she taught me a lot about sweets from different countries, but I don’t really know her fighting style. People just...fall to the ground when they attack her.”

Again, you laugh, sadder this time. “I kind of wish they were still here.”

"Where are they now?"

At that, everything quiets down and even the sizzling seems to have taken a turn for the somber. The activity is no longer rhythmic, instead, each motion sounds forced and entirely out of sync. It's as though Hanzo has just stepped on a conversational landmine, and not for the first time, he thinks there is too much he does not know about Overwatch and the secrets that they keep guarded from him.

"They’re...around,” you say carefully.

It seems like Hanzo has a knack for stumbling upon unpleasant topics, but that only feeds his curiosity. He then asks, quietly and slowly, "Then why did the other chefs not come?"

“We wouldn’t have been able to compensate them properly.”

At the mention of compensation, Hanzo knits his eyebrows. Winston and Athena have the money to compensate each agent, but not another chef? Surely an agent (though outlawed) is more expensive than that of a single cook.

You add, “They also all have their lives and a lot of them just got it back on track. So, to come back to Overwatch would be...well, it'd be giving that life up.”

“And you?”

Bitter laughter floats above the sound of the food getting plated, and it just sounds all sorts of wrong. It sounds of deceit and history.

“I want to be here.” There’s a tone of finality to your voice as you begin to set up his tray, signalling an end to that discussion.

There is nothing he can say to that, but still, he stews on it. It’s difficult to describe, but he may have just stumbled upon the edge of something incredibly personal.

“Here you are.”

You slide the tray in front of him and he sees the moment you catch yourself about the ring the bell, likely out of instinct. He smothers a huff into his fist. He watches your hand twitch away from the bell and move toward the lunchboxes beside him, taking them away.

On the tray is a fried rice dish with seafood and medley of vegetables, arranged carefully in a done with a sprig of parsley on top, accompanied by a thick mug of tea rather than his usual teapot set. It smells good, even better now that it’s up close. Again, his stomach rumbles, so very eager to disregard all conversation and any further thoughts of distractions, demanding that he stay here and eat rather than go through the trouble of sitting down at a table.

Hanzo puts his hands together. 「Thank you for the meal.」

With gusto, he digs in. The shrimp is succulent and splits apart in his teeth with a bounce. The grains of rice are similar, chewy. The vegetables have a crunch to them that offsets the seafood. There's even the slightest hint of spiciness accompanying the mild flavor of herbs. He's shoveling more food than he can chew into his mouth just to feel the textures and keep the taste from dissipating at the haste in which he's eating. He drowns it with occasional sips of his drink—a more subdued barley tea.

Vaguely, he's aware you’ve returned, just out of sight and watching him, but it's not the uncomfortable type of gaze that he had received all his life up until now. His throat does not close up, his appetite did not diminish; he finds himself still relaxed. It's...comfortable, like he's being watched over— _protected_ —rather than scrutinized. He clears off his plate and leaves it to you with a, “Thank you,” and receives a gentle, “You're welcome.”

While today yielded more questions than answers, Hanzo returns to sleep—he will have more time to interrogate you, patience is key—content with a belly full of food and, rarely enough, does not wake up until the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the slowburn is so slow, even the writer is yelling at them to get on with it.
> 
> 1\. Genji saying, "Serves you right, you monster," was originally intended to be「ざまー見ろよ、兄者 」, which is about the same (except monster --> brother), but the nuance is a bit different.   
> 2\. Taiwanese pineapple cakes...I love...


	10. Chapter 10

The news tells a small audience of heat-exhausted agents that today is one of the hottest days of the summer. Zarya’s face tells of someone who wants to shut the newsomnic up, but can't seem to muster the energy to stand. It's a disconcerting sight to behold. The heat seems to even put out McCree, who normally relishes in it. The only person who seems unaffected is Ana, who still manages to walk outside fully covered, making fools and weaklings of everyone else.

Every remaining agent was forbidden from going outside for day and Mei could not resist contacting the base, reporting her observations with rapid-fire jargon and a heat in her voice that rivals the weather. Hanzo could not really put any effort into listening, busy tending to himself with a crudely made fan.

Athena sounds apologetic when she tells a group of sweaty, irritated agents that the thermostat cannot be adjusted any further without rerouting energy from vital functions on base. Hanzo suspects all the current efforts are being rerouted to cool down Winston whom he had seen neither hair—fur—nor hide of in the past few days, busy with 'meetings’. It's unfair especially when the common areas are barely cooled and their rooms are no better than if they were to open a window (provided that the rooms _had_ windows), and those agents who were relocated to cooler places for a mission were the momentary object of envy.

This heat doesn't quite rival Japan’s, but it is difficult to breathe, to move without wanting to shower or suddenly take a flight to the Arctic. Hana did not spare any words when pointing out the frizzy state of his hair, and he spared no mercy when pointing out her hair is artificially straightened.

(He learned two things after that: not to mention it in the future and that age has not been ridiculously kind to him in the ways he wants to believe.)

It's his first summer away from Japan, but despite the weather, it doesn’t feel like summer at all. Almost fondly, Hanzo thinks a proper summer should have watermelon. Or shaved ice. The air should be thick with the smell of grilled foods and bright with lanterns or fireworks and accompanied by windchimes or the song of cicadas. (Genji would used to try to catch as many as he could when they were younger, essentially eliminating the entire population near their estate at his peak.)

He doesn’t realize he misses all of that until you serve watermelon as a part of lunch.

They’re neat, thick pyramid shaped slices with actual seeds that betray the semi-professionally sculpted meals you make for them. He steals away into his 'secret’ spot once he's finished off the main course to enjoy the chilly summer treat. He takes in the harsh beat of the sun against his skin, the rare summer breeze and relative silence brought on by this thick, overbearing weather.

The only thing missing are the cicadas.

He takes his first bite with a loud ' _hrmph_ ' and regrets nothing. The cool contrast in his mouth against the heat on his skin is a delight of sensations. The salty air tossed around by the occasional breeze only adds to the experience—he briefly thinks that he should have asked for some salt, but there’s no helping it now. And the _hunger_ —Hanzo is not shy about his eating, the bites audible and vicious. Sweet juices trickle down his mouth and into his beard, trickling freely down his hands. It's utterly disgusting and undignified, but there’s no graceful way to eat watermelon. Sure, they could be turned into cubes or little balls, but that just defeats the point of eating watermelon.

Watermelon slices, no matter how undignified, is best. He’s glad you seem to agree.

Hanzo mindlessly spits a barrage of seeds off the ledge.

For a moment, the sun is not yellow, but white. The cry of gulls are cicadas. The sea before him is grass and the familiar landscape of Hanamura. Genji sits next to him, smaller, younger— _human_ —a wide grin on his face right before he spits a line of seeds as well.

「See, brother? I’m better!」

And he hears himself saying, 「You’re too many years too early to think of besting me at anything.」

The younger Genji protests, taking another bite of his watermelon, chewing furiously through the meat of the fruit. He inhales deeply, puffing up his chest and stomach dramatically before the summer air is filled with panicked coughing, barely drowned out by the whining of cicadas and the pounding of a fist.

A ray of sun passes over his eyes and the scene is gone—the sweetness of the fruit turns his mouth numb and bitter, and he nearly throws the rind off the ledge too, only to remember Winston had long warned them against leaving evidence of their occupation behind, no matter how innocuous.

He sucks a shaky breath through his teeth instead and exhales, then wipes his mouth harshly on his arm, clutching the remains of the fruit tightly in his hand. The juice becomes tacky, sticking to him just as uncomfortable as his thoughts. The twisting in his gut threatening to squeeze out the food he’s just eaten and he clenches his teeth until it hurts.

Maybe he doesn’t miss the Japanese summer as much as he thought, after all.

* * *

Hanzo does not throw the rinds into the ocean below, barely mustering the maturity to take them back to the cafeteria to be discarded of properly. He finds himself there on reluctant legs anyway.

To his relief and surprise, he finds it relatively empty and significantly cooler than the rest of the base. Even Ana’s usual afternoon crowd is not around.

Hana’s here, her hair up in a ponytail, a tell-tale towel around her neck that indicates she's just finished her training session for the day and deep in a heated conversation. Hanzo thinks she’s surprisingly chipper for such nasty weather, but figures she’s endured worse.

“Chef, why can’t we have shaved ice?”

“Agent D.Va, I cannot allow your health to be compromised. You just came from exercise. Ice will only cause muscle crampin—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shoves her hands through the window, making grabby hands at you. “Shaved ice, please. Lots of condensed milk and mochi. Oh, and red bean.”

“I have no such thi—”

“Liar.”

The watermelon remains slip straight out of his hands and into the garbage disposal. He’s dumbstruck by the speed at which Hana calls you out, and by the looks of it—hands frozen in midair—so are you.

She begins to tick off her fingers. “You have ice. You have a mandolin”—she ignores your cries of “It’s not the same!”—“you use condensed milk for Mei’s milk coffee sometimes and you just started to make it for Zarya, and you have rice flour for Hanzo’s red bean cakes, so mochi and red bean.”

The MEKA warhero gives you the slyest of grins and crosses her arms, leaning deep into the window. “ _So_. Shaved ice?”

You fiddle with your sleeve cuffs for a moment, debating. Instead of answering, however, you deflect with, “How do you know all this?”

“McCree told me,” she says innocently and far too easily.

“Excu—He _what_?”

Hanzo almost laughs despite himself. No hesitation with throwing McCree under the proverbial bus. But then, the thought of McCree knowing all of this expunges any and all mirth from his being, the implications of it all casting a dark cloud over him.

“Chef. I require a wet towel,” Hanzo says suddenly from behind the young woman.

Naked relief floods your voice as you answer, “Oh, Agent Hanzo. Of course. Right away.”

You depart the window sill in a hurry, leaving both himself and Hana, who gives him an appraising look that is not unlike Ana’s.

“Nice save,” she mutters sarcastically, “I'm sure the chef will now love to show you right into the Cellar.”

He ignores the obvious bait, leaning down momentarily to gauge your distance. He can hear the water running toward the side of the dish waking station; you won't be hearing their conversation should the MEKA operator choose to continue this conversation.

Luckily, she waits in silence, instead just choosing to look at him expectantly as though waiting for him to break down and spill out all his deepest, darkest secrets. He almost scoffs. That will not be today and it most certainly will not be to her. (Hanzo has seen Hana be professional—reporting back to a sudden call from some higher power from the army, the image sternly reminding everyone that this woman is not a fool or a child and she is not unaffected or unawares of the gravity of her situation—whatever the the totality of that may be—but even that will not make the impossible happen.)

You return shortly, presenting a neatly folded towel. “Here you are, Agent Hanzo.”

“Thank you.” He takes it, a little pleasantly surprised to find it warm rather than ice cold. He wipes his sticky hands and face with it, the heat cools quickly against his skin, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping. Much better.

“Hey, Chef. Isn't hot in there?”

That shouldn't have surprised Hanzo as much as it did and for once, he realizes that he's never once seen you wearing anything other than your uniform—standard Overwatch-issued chef’s jacket with a high collar and sleeves with thick cuffs around your wrists.

Even if there was air conditioning inside the kitchen, the fact that you work with fire constantly probably nullifies any relief you may get.

“A little,” you confess, clearly reluctant. “I'm used to it. And”—you chuckle a bit, like it's an inside joke—“don't tell anyone, but I go into the walk-in to cool off sometimes.”

Sometimes Hanzo forgets how honest and earnest normal people can be. While he's used to the posturing, the facades, the measuring of people, this is different, refreshing, even. He hides the beginnings of a smile into the towel.

“Ooo, you’re so lucky. Can we come in at least?”

“No. Non-kitchen—”

“Stingy.”

“I cannot allow non-kitchen personnel to—”

“You let _him_ in, didn’t you?” She jabs a thumb at Hanzo, and a chill spills into his stomach. How did she hear about that? Did you tell her?

“That was...not intentional,” you say slowly, carefully.

Hana shoots him a glance with an eyebrow raised, asking him silently whether you were serious. Then she has the audacity to smirk at him—she _knows_ just like every other person in this base, but even she would not be so obtuse as to let it slip. He returns it with a frown and a warning behind it: do not say anything.

“Oh?” The MEKA driver’s voice sounds downright conspiratorial as she turns back to you. “Is that right? Hm.”

Hanzo does not like the look on her face or the tone of her voice—it reminds him too vividly of his brother right before he’s about to commit some heinous act against the family that Hanzo would inevitably have to clean up.

“Chef~” Her voice turns singsong and you shrink away a mere half-step. Hanzo thinks it’s because you’re trying to shield yourself; you may be obstinate against impromptu requests, but you might not be so strong against Hana. “Come on, it’s hot and we can’t go outside. Please?”

“No, Agent D.Va, I cannot allow tha—”

“If you won’t let us into the kitchen, then give us the shaved ice! It’s just ice, Chef. Don’t be so stingy. We’re melting out here and you have...a walk-in? _Chef_! Don’t you love us?”

You begin to stammer messy half-assurances and Hanzo and D.Va both know that she’s won. Hanzo huffs through his nose. If it’s this easy to fluster you and convince you to do something, then he has questions about why Winston chose you to be here, to defend the kitchen, to serve them when you’re such a pushover. (Though he remembers the multiple attempts to get Ana’s coveted cookies without success and wonders if it’s not because it’s _Hana_ that you seem more accommodating or if it’s because you’re wary of him.)

Hanzo resists the urge to sigh. “If the chef does not want to, there is little point to force the matter.”

“Wow,” she says, utterly sarcastic. “Way to say that after you tried to break into the Cellar.”

“Hana!”—“Agent Hanzo!?”

“Oop-sies,” she says, already slinking away without a hint of apology. “I still want my shaved ice, Chef!” The young woman tactically retreats, leaving Hanzo to deal with the bombshell she so casually dropped.

He needs to give chase and probably put her training to the test for that, but his legs betray him, staying firmly planned to the ground, and all he can feel is bone-deep exhaustion that he wishes he can blame on the heat.

Almost instinctively, he steels himself for the inevitable loss, the towel wringing dry in his grip: his food will no longer be safe to eat despite your thin reassurances; the one sanctuary he thought he had found in this base that was free from judgment and the politics of his past is also decimated; he will have to start spending the meager salary Overwatch provides (or his own) and suffer not knowing if the restaurant he choose will be acceptable—it truly shouldn’t be so much of an issue considering just what he managed to make himself eat during his years on the run, but he may have unknowingly, unwittingly become conditioned by your cooking, by your devotion, by the quality he never thought he would ever come close to allowing himself to have ever again.

The broiling sorrow nearly bowls him over with its force, sapping him further of strength. Weak. He’s become weak. Luxuries like food should never have been afforded to him, and now you _know_ and there’s little doubt in his mind that you wouldn’t retaliate with something more devastating than your shabby fencing skills.

Then you laugh, breathless and disbelieving, shattering him from his silence.

“She is really too…” You stop yourself, breaking off with another laugh. “It’s all right, Agent Hanzo. I already know. Someone else told me.”

Hanzo cannot help closing his eyes for a moment and tipping his head back, willing himself to not immediately leave and strangle someone. He knew the base was conspiring against him, he _knew_ McCree could not keep his flapping mouth shut.

“McCree had insisted I try.” Since that man’s name is already tarnished by someone else, there’s no point in trying to mask his source anymore.

“Oh? So it was _Jesse_? That rascal.” Your voice sounds fond, and he does not miss how you refer to the cowboy by his first name and only that, cannot miss how you don't seem to bear a hint of anger at McCree when you easily directed your rage at him. He tries his best to ignore the unfounded and uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

“When Jesse used to do this, he was one of the few people to do it alone.”

You rest your hands a little more on the sill and he glances down. The cuff of your sleeves lie limp against your wrists, damp.

“I guess he's just done it so much that I'm not surprised anymore.” You chuckle to yourself. “His attempts were pretty bad, you know. Even back in the day, he was big—oh, you know.” You gesture exaggerated measurements in the air. “Big, tall, loud. No one could miss him. Thought he could blow off the door once. That almost screwed up the line for a day. Head Chef was so angry he fed him meatloaf for a week.

“People who did it in a team usually were more successful. Some of them broke the mechanism; we had to load in food from the front for about a week while those guys were reprimanded and getting the door replaced. Others tried to go in from above, but that lead nowhere. There may have been a few who were smarter and tried the other side, but there was no shortage of people trying then. Even I had to fend off a few people—I was better back then, I think.”

He bites the inside of his lip, but can’t suppress the quirk of his lips. You? Better at fending off agents whose lives were dedicated to espionage and covert operations? Impossible.

“I’m a little shorthanded and busy because of it, but I welcome the challenge.” You laugh again. “Though, I’m not sure I’m a match against a ninja. I remember when Agen—ah, no.” You clear your throat and he has a feeling he knows what you’re about to say, but lets it go. He doesn’t want to tread that path either. “Well, I ask that you do not do it that often. I do have a job to do and customers to feed, so I ask you please respect that.”

In spite of himself and the situation, he finds himself smiling just a bit. “We shall see.”

* * *

To everyone's joy, you do call them to the cafeteria for shaved ice a couple of hours before dinner. It turns out there was a machine from your cache of unused kitchen equipment. For people who have never had any, it was an interesting and welcome experience. For people like Hana, this was sweet, sweet victory.

You knew this was bad—indulging agents in their requests when does little to improve their health—but you reasoned against all reason that this was an exception, _this was fine_ , and this was not getting in the way of anything even as your communicator rung incessantly. It makes everyone happy and a chef’s greatest joy is the happiness of their customers. What was it your mentor used to say?

“ _Love them with all our being. We live for them. We die for them_.”

By the time the last of the agents got their little bowl of shaved ice, it was already time to prep for dinner service. You have to swallow back the rising burn and pressure in your stomach as you shove an ice cube into your mouth—it won’t work, you’ll need medicine to handle this, but it’s just so troublesome—and get to responding to your missed messages and calls as you changed out of your sweat drenched chef’s jacket.

* * *

Dinner rolls around and it’s then Hanzo realizes that the game has now changed when he receives his tray. He can tell you're watching him carefully, mischievously despite your face being hidden by the wall. That single piece of pepper—harmless, really—sits at the top of his dish where he could easily pick it out and throw it away if it truly bothers him.

But Hanzo Shimada is no coward.

He picks up his chopsticks right at the service window and takes great pleasure at the stuttering gasp you make when he snaps up the sliver and eats it.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says haughtily before taking his tray and walking away.

His only regret is that he could not look you in the eyes as he did so.

* * *

Hanzo holes himself into his room, ignoring the damp humidity that clings to him incessantly even after a shower, his belly full enough to put him to an easy lull. However, after tonight’s slight against him, it means that it’s time for him to take it a little more seriously. He doesn’t truly hate the pepper as much as he thought—lightly grilled and seasoned, less bitter than he expected, but it’s the intent behind it that counted. You will regret your transgressions and challenging Hanzo Shimada to a fight.

“Athena. I need the floorplans of this Watchpoint,” he says, sitting in the single chair in his room and picking up his makeshift fan and cooling himself with it.

The AI is silent and Hanzo waits with bated breath for answer. Will she provide them or is she alerting someone that he’s trying to look into something that he may not be authorized for?

“One moment, please.”

Hanzo spends the first few minutes in suspense, almost ready to tell Athena off for wasting his time when his communicator beeps with the arrival of a file. It’s a large file, one that takes a little too long to open and takes up a ridiculous amount of space when it does.

However, what results is a pleasing document of neat lines and even neater notes. (Some part of him says that if he did not take the path of an assassin and lived a normal life, he may have become an architect.) There are areas he recognizes and areas he knows are no longer there, having either been damaged in some manner unknown to him or long replaced by something newer. He doesn’t linger on them, however, quickly seeking out his prize.

Hanzo zooms in on the kitchen area and can almost recall every detail of the area from the plan. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can probably even map out the exact path he took in the little scuffle. To his amusement, nothing’s changed, it seems. Not the counters, not the measurements, nothing seems out of place except...

Hanzo scrolls through several more files, searching and finding nothing. He leans back in his chair with a steady hand over his eyes.

“Athena. Is this all? Is there a floorplan of anything beneath or beyond the kitchen area?”

“Unfortunately, that data is unavailable.”

“What do you mean…’unavailable’? Does it not exist or…” His eyes narrow. “Am I not authorized to see it?”

She pauses. “I cannot answer that, Agent Hanzo.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling on his lips. Is that the game they're playing? “And who has the authority to see this information?”

Athena sounds just a touch amused as she answers, likely having caught onto his line of thought, “Unfortunately, you do not have the authority to know that either.”

“How can I gain such clearance?”

“The information is distributed on an as-needed basis. Currently, Agent Hanzo, your duties do not require access to this knowledge.”

Maybe a different tactic then. He supposes finding out who _can_ see such information can come later.

“What can you tell me about the Cellar?”

If a voice could do the equivalent of an eyebrow raise, he's sure that Athena would be doing it. “Unfortunately, I do not have access to any information regarding the Cellar.”

“But you do not deny its existence.”

“...no. I cannot.” The relenting tone in her voice makes his stomach clench with some thrill. “However, I cannot condone spaces that I am unaware of. The safety of all agents and staff within the Gibraltar Watchpoint are my prerogative and data of this nature should be centrally managed.”

Hanzo’s mouth drops open slightly, the implications of Athena’s plea only semi-clear.

Is it possible that not even Athena herself has access to the floor plans then?

“Thank you, Athena,” Hanzo says slowly, trying to piece together the hints he’s been given, “you've been very helpful.”

“I am glad to be of assistance.”

Her voice fades, leaving Hanzo in silence to ponder and scheme.

The plans do not hint at a Cellar. Does it mean it was built after these plans were created?

He leans deeper into the chair, a little bit of a smile playing on his face. It should be laughable, the amount of thought and effort he’s putting into this operation. He tells himself it’s all in good fun, it’s a harmless brain-teaser where lives are not in danger and he stands to have a little something to gain from this. There is no reason to stop yet.

He thinks back.

You seem to come out of that door frequently. The boxes you brought seemed to hold produce and ingredients for an empty kitchen. When Athena summoned you, he heard the Cellar door open before you arrived even though you had nothing.

So it _is_ a storage space, then? For more than just alcohol, it seems.

“.. _.and there have always been reports of people filching food_...”

Stolen food. Perhaps that’s why the Cellar exists? To defend it? Then what is the point of having a kitchen?

Though, it’s implied that the other chefs were far more capable than you at defending it. Why need the Cellar at all? Is it because the previous Head Chef knew one day it would end up like this, with a single lone chef to defend the treasure that is the food?

“ _I kind of wish they were here_.”

If so, then why _aren’t_ they here? You had mentioned that they were around, but you are here alone, catering to a base of criminals and defectors. Hanzo supposes they cannot be blamed. No innocent civilian would want to be embroiled into the political mess that is Overwatch and risk their lives just to cook. Though, you did mention an ex-convict.

Hanzo scoffs. Even he knows that a person’s past cannot dictate their future.

“ _We wouldn't have been able to compensate them properly_.”

Surely Winston could afford hire at least a single bot to guard the door or just _one more_ chef off the streets (even if air conditioning wasn’t affordable). Is it because of the dangers of the job that the compensation is not comparable? But what dangers could you possibly be in? You do not risk your life like the agents do. You do not travel far. You do not put yourself out there to be recognized. You have no bounty on your head. You’re in a base staffed by at least two capable agents at all times. You should have very little to fear other than boredom.

Hanzo furrows his brows, musing idly on the cost it would require to get a civilian to agree to such a dangerous job when strangeness of those words—“ _we_ ”—strikes him, forcing him to sit straight up.

What would a mere chef know about Overwatch’s finances?

* * *

“We lost contact with two more agents heading here,” Winston says solemnly. “I suspect more and more Talon agents are converging on Gibraltar.”

“They probably never left,” Soldier: 76 growls, tightening his fist. “Just lying low, waiting for us to split ourselves up and take us down one by one.”

Winston sighs, a wisp of frosty breath fogging his glasses momentarily. “I believe it may only be a matter of time until they decide to rally their forces for a targeted attack. Should we go in for a preemptive attack or wait?”

The former Strike Commander remains silent.

Athena’s icon lights up the monitor. “May I interrupt?”

Winston waves. “Go ahead, Athena.”

“Chef has forwarded an urgent message. Would you like to view it now?”

The two narrow their eyes at the AI’s screen. Urgent? From the chef? The two briefly exchange a glance with each other.

“Yes, please.”

It takes a few moments for the message to appear, too long to have been simply decrypting itself, but even so, it’s ridiculously short. 

> 'SENDER: OFFICE OF WILL B. PETRAS
> 
> RCPT: CŒUR D’ARTICHAUT
> 
> AMT: 30,000,000 CREDITS
> 
> ACH: XXXXXXXXX0987
> 
> RCV: XXXXXXXXX6750
> 
> BIC: UNCUUSNY024
> 
> MSG: TO YOUR CLIENTS, MY SUPPORT’

An air of sickening silence strangles the two, and Soldier: 76 could feel the words rocking him to his core. He reads it over and over, the implication of the messages turning over new waves of anxiety in his gut.

Winston turns his head to Soldier, looking pallid. “Is...is this _the_ Petras?”

“Affirmative,” Athena answers instead, pulling up an image of the man who Soldier: 76 recognized as the reason for Overwatch’s persecution. It stares impassively into the room, that heavy-set scowl is too familiar to forget. “The chef would like to know how to proceed with this.”

Winston turns to the older man, voice quiet as though the image would hear them. “Do you think...he knows? By all accounts, he should be the last person to have found out—”

“I can't put it past him. That man has eyes and ears in places most people can’t touch.” Soldier crosses his arms, breathing out heavily through his nose. “'Clients,’ huh?” He laughs derisively to himself. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“I thought...I had believed he _hated_ Overwatch. Athena, are you sure this is meant for us?”

“Affirmative.”

“But why…?”

Soldier: 76 rubs his forehead, a deep sigh rumbling in his chest. There can only be two reasons. One, as a trap, and the other—

“Sometimes, what a person represents and what they personally stand for don’t fit.”

He’s seen it in his time: people who claim one thing for the vote or the money, but secretly do the opposite because that’s what they truly believe in. But Petras was another story. He was so sure, so certain, that Petras truly believed in the drivel he spewed about Overwatch: it was becoming too powerful, too autonomous, that Overwatch is not necessary in times of peace. History has shown what happens to organizations created for war; they either get dismantled or live long enough to take over the country.

Perhaps Petras believed it at one point and is now of a different mind. Or maybe he, too, was forced to play the role designated to him. If he was, he had played it well.

With another rumbling sigh, Soldier straightens up. “This is getting out of hand. We need to pull out of this before this blows up and takes us all with it.”

Winston gasps. “You can’t be suggesting to cut ties and leave the chef to deal with it, are you, sir?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He knows firsthand how _that_ feels. “But this place is no longer safe. Chef is no longer safe. This has gone too far. We must end it. Now.”

“But without Chef’s help, we would’ve never been able to keep the current Overwatch running. We can't just—”

“This is for everyone’s protection.”

Winston was always a bleeding heart who cared more about the people than the mission. He made for a great comrade, but (in his opinion) made for a terrible leader. Leaders need to make difficult decisions all the time and often in opposing interest of the very people it will affect. Winston just doesn’t have the heart to do such a thing, and it’s a miracle that Overwatch has been operating for as long as it did under his instruction.

This only solidifies his concerns that recalling Overwatch was very much a mistake and there’s no telling how many people or lives it may take with it this time. Soldier: 76 knew what he was getting himself into when he begrudgingly answered, but not you. You are just here out of a foolish obligation that should’ve— _everything should have_ —died with the old Overwatch. Continuing this any further can lead to the demise of an otherwise bright future where you could continue doing good without them. Time and again, your presence and involvement has been the point of several heated discussions between himself, Winston, and Ana. Nothing good happens when civilians get involved. While you seemed determined to make a place for yourself here—and doing a damn good job of it, winning everyone over by appealing to the most basic of human desires—he wanted you gone.

“Isn’t it safer here? I mean, just last week we received reports of two more former agents—”

“And they’re _only_ targeting agents. Chefs are not an considered agents and not considered relevant. Before that happens, we have to end this because Chef as hell isn’t going to.”

Talon is dirty, but they should not be so dirty as to go after people who were not directly involved in the missions or other had limited information. Or so he hoped—it was a foolish hope, he knows. (He has never once forgotten Amélie, never once forgotten the promise he made to Gerard’s grave, never once forgot the arguments he had with Gabriel after what happened with Ana and Widowmaker.) Soldier: 76 can reluctantly imagine why they would go after you; you’d make a halfway decent hostage—helpless (compared to the current agents), well-liked, well-connected, and a vital part of Overwatch’s current survival. Your existence, no matter how well protected, cannot be ignored.

He looks to Petra’s impassive image and makes up his mind.

With stern determination, he says, “Athena. Call Chef up here. We have to talk.”

Winston looks lost for a moment, mouth agape and eyes searching the air for an answer as Athena answers, “One momen—”

“ _No_ .” Winston raises himself up to his full height, face set in steely determination. “I will _not_ allow you to jeopardize our relationship with the chef like this. Athena, cancel the call.”

His voice drops to a growl when he asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We will regroup and attempt to make contact with Petras and determine his intentions. If it goes well, it will be a huge leap in re-establishing the legitimacy of Overwatch. We will use this to our advantage and bring Overwatch back from the brink.”

Soldier: 76 sneers, a flare of annoyance offsetting the chill of the room, the naivety of Winston’s words sparking nostalgic bitterness from a younger Jack Morrison who had no direction or help.

“You’re making a mistake. We need to stop this operation. Now.”

“Unfortunately, Soldier, I do not recall you volunteering to be the leader.”

Those words lodge a stone in his jaw, preventing him from retaliating. They both stare each other down for a moment before Soldier spits, “Think you can do my job, can you?”

Winston frowns. “Someone has to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, this chapter took a lot longer than I expected. I'm hoping things ramp up after this month—both in writing and in the story. Again, thanks for reading and still supporting me.
> 
> I almost forgot how SWIFT messages looked like and then decided it wasn't such a big deal since all of them usually have numbers as field names like 32A and 33B. I agonized over it for an unnecessarily long time.


	11. Chapter 11

Hanzo is drunk—ridiculously so even by his own admittedly compromised standards. 

Rain water soaks his clothes down to the very fibers and they cling to him like an ill-fitted second skin. The pounding in his head is only muted by the chill and the desperate writhing in his skin which bids him to get up, get up, get up, but that is hindered by the heaviness in his limbs. It's a good thing he cannot move—the sloshing in his stomach is relentless and revolt if he were to do so much as breathe too hard. 

He closes his swollen eyes. 

Where had he—where had it all gone wrong?

The past few weeks had been going relatively well. He had finally, finally grasped something resembling normalcy (if avoiding Genji and gorging himself was considered 'normal'). 

A shuddery breath leaves him slowly in a plume of mist that's pierced by the still-falling rain. It's not coming down as hard as before, luckily: relentless sheets that threatened to wash away the summer and his foolish self—too busy chasing after the blinding warmth of alcohol to care—off this rooftop and straight off the cliff and into the raging sea below. Now, it's nothing more than light pitter-patters against his face, gentle reminding him not to succumbed to the siren's call of a dark oblivion, and willed him to face reality. 

Yes. Reality. 

He had involved himself too much, ran away too much, dallied too much, so when reality caught up to him, he found himself cornered and woefully unequipped to handle it all. Even with all he's learnt in life, he found himself lacking in things such as reconciliation and courage—courage; when half his life could be summarized in daring acts that would make most cower just upon hearing of them. 

He became too caught up in a pace that he thought he was in control of. 

The beginning of summer's end was marked by Mei's timely return, and with her, souvenirs. Tiny, wrapped pieces of jerky was well-received by everyone and devoured in an instant. (It was worth noting that you had seemed particularly upset about it all despite being offered your own package, making short work of small talk, and their portions just a fraction smaller—Ana laughed it off quickly, claiming you to be 'cute' and pouting about everyone ruining their appetites.) There were sweets (white rabbit candies, gummies, and other unfamiliar items that were all delicious), imported teas, snacks, and lost daring of all, copious amounts of alcohol that, if Mei had been flying a commercial flight instead of 'Air Orca', would never had been allowed aboard. Just that alone removes the bits of disappointment at the lack of pineapple cakes that he didn't ask for. 

Even better, Winston had begun to dole out missions. Though it was not yet Hanzo's turn, the anticipation keeps his spirits up. In the meantime, Hanzo was able to convince an eager Winston to give him access to detailed plans of the entire base and surrounding area under the guise of fortifying the base's defenses. (Apparently Fareeha was on charge of doing a risk assessment of the base and upgrading the security systems, but did not yet have the chance to complete it.) 

The maps he received are incredibly dense, both in size and information, and he has to chunk it out in more manageable sections to study. He learns of the surrounding areas first—they were the first files and he is in no particular rush, the kitchen nor the treasure was going anywhere—such as the Moorish Castle and the Siege Tunnels of Gibraltar, both which have been partially restored and reconstructed for the Watchpoint's use once upon a time. The maps become his nighttime study and bedtime stories, but they don't keep him asleep for long; they are nothing against the insistent tittering in his veins that jolts him awake at night. 

Originally, Hanzo avoided going to the kitchen in the middle of these spells as frequently as he used to, but there is only so much he can bear alone without sufficient distraction, and the kitchen was as good as any where he’s not left alone to this thoughts. So, one night, he caves. 

It’s difficult to feel bad about it, too, when the kitchen lights are still on and you greet him with the same sort of welcome you would during any other time of the day, and tell him to draw up a stool to sit at the long, empty service window. He does so and sits, folding his hands at the counter, and then he’s reminded of Japan in that way: people who stayed alone at the bar-style tables of _izakaya_ s and ramen shops and twenty-four hour fast food chains, refusing to go home to their families after a vicious night of drinking just to return to work in a few scant hours. He supposed he’s no different from them now. 

You ask no questions other than the usual: “What would you like, Agent Hanzo?” for which he is grateful for. 

“Anything.” 

If he sounded weaker than usual, you didn’t say anything, and for once, you don’t tell him to enter his order into the terminal. Instead, you turn around and get straight to work, letting the steady sounds of your bustle speak for you. The stove clicks, porcelain clinks, water falls, and the consistent whisking and chopping give him something to focus on despite having nothing to do but wait. Each sound is a chant, a verse of a spell that sinks into his skin, skittering up his skull, filling in the crevices and forcing out something else darker bit by bit. 

It’s not until you slide him his tea and snack that he realizes that the feelings that chased him away from his bed did not follow him here, or if it did, they did not remain for long. Your quiet presence on the other side of the counter remains casually vigilant, as if daring the sludge to return. 

It’s strange. He never really liked having anyone observe his eating habits—it made him far too human, too vulnerable—but he found he didn’t particularly mind. Maybe he’s even a little grateful—not that he would ever voice it—that you’re willing to sacrifice your sleep for him and tend to his childish nightmares without so much as a complaint. He should probably feel guilty, but it’s hard to when you’re so accommodating. And if you ever feel angry, he’ll at least know, that the most mean-spirited thing you’ll do is merely la a slice of pepper in his food. He has nothing to fear. 

Though, he has to constantly remind himself that even a mouse will bite a cat when cornered, and not to make light of you or take complete advantage of your hospitality. 

But even so, he conveniently forgets, ignoring the possibility of that danger and stretching out this sense of comfort for as long as you would give it. More often than not, after that, he’s up before dawn breaks, sneaking in a quiet, secret moment before the base comes to life. 

Luckily, you don’t seem to mind at all and it’s hard to feel guilty when you greet him just as brightly as you would any other time of the day, adjusting to his company with a prepared pot of tea and a small snack of your choice. Eventually, you even share jovial stories of the ‘good, old days’ among the sounds of your knife or stirring. The sounds were steady in their rhythm to the point of hypnotic, sending shivers up his spine and sinking into parts of him that he didn’t know existed, chasing away any lingering doubts. It’s not unpleasant; he enjoyed it—it was relaxing in ways that he didn’t think possible. 

In return, he shares the less gruesome stories of his time on the run. There were undoubtedly parts that he could not share in polite company, and the amount of censoring he has to do puts into sharp perspective that he hasn’t been a particularly ‘good’ person—not that he’s ever claimed such a thing. But the number of ‘safe’ stories he could share with you is embarrassingly small. 

Despite all that, he still returns, slowly learning more and more about all that you do. 

It should frighten him to say that it’s become a habit, and the excuse that it’s for the treasure feels like a feeble afterthought. 

Though, it’s hard to worry of those things when you ask him, “Would you like another serving of bread pudding?” 

Immediately, he replies, “Please.” 

His empty plate is immediately cleared off the counter and replaced with another bubbling piece of indulgence that he does not hesitate digging into even as you’re saying, “Be careful, it’s hot.” 

As always, it’s mouth-wateringly soft, not quite as hot as you proclaim it to be, but still enough to make everything else feel cool by comparison, filling his belly with a comforting weight. There’s no raisins in it this time, no added textures to the bread pieces that have now melded into one. Cinnamon permeates his senses and the rich, silken taste of eggs wrap everything up into a neat package. The sweetness almost makes his toes curl and the corner of his mouth lift. 

“Is it better with raisins? Or without them?” 

“Without.” 

“How’s the sweetness?” 

“A little too much.” 

“Understood, thank you.” 

Amidst his eating, Hanzo almost misses you scribbling these notes down in a notepad before it’s shoved away into the pocket of your apron. 

“You keep notes?” 

“Yes, there are times I must adjust recipes or remember things for later, so I keep a notepad around.” 

“How old-fashioned.” Though, he cannot say that he does not do the same. 

You shrug, unperturbed. “Pen and paper is preferable in the kitchen. Too much technology tends to complicate things.” 

“Is that so?” 

You hum, a little inquisitive and you turn just slightly to give him a better view of the kitchen, gesturing vaguely inside. “Head Chef used to think that having complicated machinery in the kitchen makes your skill dull and takes away that...human element. Though, ‘human’ is kind of…subjective. But even now, we don’t have very fancy equipment.” 

The archer understands the concept well. Despite Japan’s technological advancements, the residents of Shimada castle insisted on doing things the ‘old fashioned way’. Even his father was of the same mind: reliance on technology undermines one’s foundations. Yes, one could use guns or poisons to kill or have GPS track a person’s coordinates, but when you don’t have access to such conveniences, you have no choice but to rely on your own skill and knowledge—the basics. 

He just didn’t think it also bled into the realm of cooking. 

Bitterly amused, he thinks that if your Head Chef ever met his father, they’d probably get along. Though, he can’t remember his father partaking in many Western foods. 

“So your Head Chef valued skill then.” 

Haltingly, you say, “Well, yes, but…” He looks up when he hears you huff, his curiosity is immediately piqued. “Head Chef always went on and on about what makes good food.” You tick off each on a finger. “Good ingredients, good skill, and...lots of love.” 

He almost balks. 

Love? 

As if sensing his skepticism, you wave a hand around. “I know, I didn’t believe him at first. But over time, I think I get it.” Your voice turns soft, twisting his stomach in an agonizingly sweet and painful way. “And I think I have to agree.” 

He raises his cup to his lips to hide his sneer, and douses that bitterness with a large gulp of tea. 「What nonsense.」 

But he was no chef. What could he ever know of what ‘love’ was in cooking? What does he even know of the concept itself? 

Was it a tool? A feeling? Something lost and buried by the sands of time? 

Unwittingly, he searches for an answer inside himself, but comes up empty. The word just does not lend itself to any experiences he can remember, none which he can attribute to it. 

Slowly, he lowers his cup and stares down aimlessly at the sill. 

What is ‘love’? 

What meaning, what experiences can be attached to such a vague and general word? 

The experiences he could potentially attach to such a word fall quite short. For Hanzo, the word is inadequate and far too simple. How could a single word ever express the varying weights of the different types out there? Loving a food is different from loving a person, and similarly, loving a parent is different from loving a lover; the severity of their meaning is so far apart, and yet, they’re still expressed with the same word. 

English is a far too strange and distant language. 

So what sort of love do you put in your cooking? 

What sort of ‘love’ has he consumed? 

And the twisting in his stomach becomes larger, threatening to consume him instead, in a feeling that he cannot name. It is not dark, but it has the potential to be more terrifying than those that haunt his dreams. It makes his skin feel too tight and releases a jitter in his veins not unlike the moments before he steadies himself to fire an arrow. That tension almost makes him want to leave. 

“Is that the secret of the Cellar?” he asks sarcastically. 

“Oh, that again?” 

You lean against your side of the sill, arms crossed, but not angry. Contemplative, maybe. 

The relief is instantaneous, flushing the tightness right out of him, when you take to the change of subject easily. That relief nearly overshadows the fact that he may have just gotten you to speak about something forbidden. 

“Love...is not something that you can just put in a jar and leave it down in the Cellar. So, no, that’s not it. But, I guess you can say that it has something to do with it. Maybe?” 

“Maybe?” 

“...what do you think the the treasure is, Agent Hanzo?” 

He tries to call the exact words that McCree gave him. “It is something that sustains the Watchpoint.” 

He watches your reactions carefully—a thoughtful raise of your hand to your chin, a slight tension in your posture that borders between leaping at some truth and holding back to feign ignorance. 

“What do you think can sustain this place, then?” 

A question for an answer, is it? Fine, he’ll play this game—if only to get away from the uncomfortable and unfamiliar discussion of ‘love’. 

There is a million different answers to your question. Alcohol, for one—it’s the answer that McCree gave. Money, is the next obvious one. Considering that you have hinted at the fact that you are more involved in Overwatch’s finances than strictly necessary—really, how do you know if the Watchpoint is capable of hiring another chef or not—it is likely that there is a vault beneath the kitchen, the last place anyone would look (other than the unused bathrooms scattered around the base that, despite the cleaning bots best efforts, look like they were imported straight from a horror game). Then there’s equipment, power generators, bots, and a number of other things. 

However, the question sparks a memory. This very question has been posed to him long ago in his youth, confronted with the reality of being the clan’s scion and eventually, master. Replace ‘Watchpoint’ with ‘clan’ and his answer is simple. 

“Its people.” 

You falter, hand from your chin dropping as you consider his answer. A jolt of excitement makes him straighten in his chair. Is he correct? 

“That’s a...very good answer,” you say slowly. The excitement in his gut quickly wanes at the tone of your voice. It sounds as though you’re not quite sure yourself. 

“But is it correct?” 

You seem to meander between thoughts. Quietly, you confess, “I don’t really know anymore.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Your arms come down and fold neatly on the counter between you both. If he lean forward just a bit, he could grab hold of them and not let go until you give up the answer. But he watches and waits for your answer. 

“You see, Agent Hanzo, I am very used to the Cellar. I’m sure some of it is very valuable, but to be very honest, I’m not...very sure which is the true ‘treasure’. I know what I consider to be a treasure, but I don’t exactly know what the Head Chef meant.” 

Slack-jawed, he stares. 

If you are lying, then you’re doing a very good job. 

Very slowly, he asks, “So you chefs risk your lives to protect something that you don’t even know of?” 

“No!” Your hands immediately balls into fists against the counter. “No, that’s not the case. There _is—_ ” You choke on the words and then Hanzo glimpsed it with an out-of-place glee: victory. So you _do_ know. 

He leans in deeper into the window, and you step back. He can barely glimpse your face, but tactics like this is most effective when you’re level with the other person, but he’ll have to make do. He needs a bigger push, big enough to make you spill. You’re almost there, riled up, and likely to spill. 

“Chef.” It’s in his grasp. “I understand this item is of utmost importance to you.” It’s so close. “And it would be wiser to have all the agents protect it.” If he can just _break_ you—“But without knowing what it is, it could be destroyed in passing. It would be in your best interest to…” 

What is he _doing_ ? 

“...to continue doing as you have.” 

The relief from you is palpable as he draws back, slow and controlled. His heart is hammering in his chest, turning his nerves numb. The tantalizing answer was _so close_ and all he had to do was just… 

He forces himself to take a sip of his tea, wincing at the cool temperature. 

“Chef, more tea.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

The teapot and teacup is cleared, and he watches you waltzing around the kitchen to fulfill his order. Folding his hands in front of his face, he wonders if he had just let something precious slip out of his grasp, if he had failed to make the mark, if he’ll ever get a second chance. 

Though, when he finds himself with another serving of tea and another snack, he finds it hard to regret the decision too much. He’ll get to the answer soon, there’s no rush. 

And he didn’t rush. 

While he’s tempted to rub this into McCree’s face, he has to keep this quiet for now—if the gunslinger knew that you had begun to loosen up, he might dive in and attempt something himself, ruining his plans. No, Hanzo keeps these conversations close to him and your time even closer, lingering just up until the time the sky begins to lighten and the hints of dawn splashes into the cafeteria. 

The conversations following do not encroach upon the treasure, but they do touch upon something more personal, giving him a better view of the person behind the dividing wall. 

“And because of Patissier Woo, I don’t like handling chocolates. She’ll make you eat the chocolate if you mess it up, which sounds great, but when you have tons of it, it’s disgusting.” 

“If it was such a waste, why did she not eat it herself?” 

“She was an omnic.” 

He nearly chokes on his tea. So there were omnics in the kitchen. Just as he had thought in the beginning. 

Insensitive as it may be, he asks, “How did she make anything if she could not eat?” 

“She took precise measurements and always took notes. She was one of the people who taught me about looking at people’s dishes to find out their likes and dislikes. Actually, a lot of the other chefs had that habit, too. We even compiled a database with everyone’s preferences.” 

“Oh? Is it still being used now?” 

“Of course!” You sound awfully proud. “It contains years of data from the Strike Commander down to the gardeners with allergies and everything. It’s really useful.” 

“Is this data accessible by everyone?” 

You take a moment to think. “It shouldn’t. It’s kept here, and I don’t think even Athena has access to it.” 

“Ah, is that so? How reassuring.” 

Occasionally, among the stories, you dole out gems like this and it makes piecing the puzzle together all the more satisfying. 

But not all of these meetings are so carefree. 

It’s slowly becoming more apparent that you’re getting distracted, troubled. It’s small things at first that he chalks up to fatigue: letting the kettle whistle for too long, missing a spot when you’re wiping down the counter. However, it becomes apparent that a lack of sleep is not the only thing on your mind. 

Hanzo enters the kitchen at your unspoken meeting time as usual, but to his surprise, Winston is already there. The sight of the gorilla at the service window shocks all the sleep from his system and he unconsciously suppresses his breath—hiding himself and listening. 

“I promise, we will do everything in our powe—” 

“You don’t have to do anything, Winston.” Even from this distance, Hanzo could hear the uncharacteristic iciness in your voice. “Everyone risks their lives. I don’t. This is the least I can do.” 

Winston leans forward, hands on the edge of the sill, seemingly exasperated and frustrated. “We are worried for you, and I’m sure your colleagues are as well.” 

“They’re _fine_ ! I c— _we_ chose to do this, and I don’t want to take it back.” 

“At least take some time off, you’ve been—” 

“I’m _fine_ !” 

Winston, and even Hanzo, is taken aback by the volume of your voice. It echoes fiercely into the mess hall, the high, domed ceilings trapping the sound and twists it into something more haunting and lasting. 

You huff angrily. “If you do not want have anything to order, Winston, please...just go.” 

“Chef…” 

“Please.” Hanzo watches as you grab Winston’s massive hand on the counter and give it a squeeze—a motion he could feel inside himself despite not being anywhere near. “I’m fine. Everything will be fine. I promise.” 

Every bit of Winston’s stance projected reluctance and doubt even as he pulled away, seeming to hold onto your hand as long as he could. He looks like he wants to say more, but then shakes his massive head and makes his way out of the lonely cafeteria on his fists, completely bypassing Hanzo who took to the shadows. Up close, he could see the frustration on the scientist’s face. Whatever you both were talking about, Winston seems ridiculously worked up about it, and Hanzo wonders if he shouldn’t try to find out. 

The door slides shut, casting everything back into silence, but Hanzo could still hear the echoes of your voice—angry and so reminiscent of the time you tried to force him to leave the kitchens. 

_Even a mouse will bite a cat if cornered._

Is it safe to approach? Should he draw back for today and leave you alone to process your thoughts and cool off? It would be the smartest idea, the safest for him. 

But what about you? 

You said so yourself, _you’re fine_ . 

And Hanzo knows it’s a damn lie. 

Against his better judgment, he approaches the service window. It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t bother him at all—months ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Now, it’s a little different. These past few weeks meant _something_ . _You_ mean something a little more than an estranged cook now. 

Silently, he watches for a few moments when he gets to the window where Winston stood. 

You’re roaming around the kitchen some distance away, a stormy expression set on your face and a tightness to your jaw. Ingredients for something gathered in your arms as you begin chopping away, a little harder and a lot messier. The sound is jarring rather than comforting, violent rather than relaxed. He’s almost wary of calling out to you in case you’re startled into taking out your own hand. The archer waits until you’ve set down your knife to reach over and take some leaves and shove them into your mouth. 

“Chef.” 

And he almost feels guilty when you whirl around, hand just inches away from knocking your knife over. It was good then that he did not call to you while you were still working. You wipe your hands quickly on your apron—a little dirtier than usual—and make your way to him. Before your face disappears entirely behind the upper part of the window, he sees the weariness in your eyes, in your face, the tension in your jaw and shoulders. 

“Good morning, Agent Hanzo. What can I get you?” 

No matter how well you try to hide it, the exhaustion is apparent in your voice. His answer never leaves his mouth despite it being open. Lately, he has let you decide for him, but in your current state, it may not be a wise idea. He must have reached some quota of bad decisions already, anymore may prove disastrous. 

Eventually, he waves his hand. “I’ll leave it up to you.” 

“Certainly. One moment.” 

You don’t even get very far before he watches you slam your hip into a counter, too shaky on your feet to get very far before hunching over a counter. 

“Chef!?” 

“Hrughk—I’m fin, I’m fine, Agent Hanzo. Just...give me a minute.” 

He waits a moment, but observes no change, no intervention from Athena, and against all good judgment, he goes around the bend to open the doors to the kitchen because you are decidedly _not fine_ and likely haven’t been for a very, very long time. 

At the sound of them opening, you struggle to raise your head. At distance, he can tell that you’re ridiculously unwell even through the thinly-veiled anger you’re directing at him. 

“No, you can’t be in here. Get out.” Another timely lurch renders your warning ineffective. 

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not so much of a monster as to leave you and watch you struggle. That’s tasteless and highly unnecessary. Even his kills were swift, leaving the least amount of suffering and regret. Though, he cannot say the same for Genji, not with the way his brother had humiliated him and made him suff—Hanzo shoves that thought of his mind. He cautiously makes his way toward you, carefully eyeing the items in your vicinity for anything you could throw at him (though he doubts you’d hit him even if you were completely well). 

“I will call Dr. Zielg—” 

“No!” Then quietly, “No, she’s sleeping. This is…normal.” 

You would have to forgive him if he didn’t believe you. You look nothing short of unhealthy and it’s likely no one else notices with the way you conveniently hide your face behind the overhand of the service window. Whoever designed it clearly did not want the chefs to be seen or wanted to discourage interactions between the two worlds that it separates. 

Here, there is no such barrier and your suffering is laid bare for him to see. 

A prickle of panic rises in the back of his neck. The fact that you have abandoned your duty of protecting this place only shows how severe the situation is. A hand closes in on your shoulder and pushes you more upright and he does it with more ease than he would have expected. 

“Chef. Focus. What do you need?” he asks gravely. 

Listlessly, you wave at some vague direction. Hanzo’s not even sure if you know what you’re gesturing at, not with your eyes closed and brows knitted together in a tight and pained expression. 

“I need to…get my medicine.” 

“Where?” 

For a moment, you don’t answer and Hanzo thinks you may have passed out,but you raise your head, eyes narrowed and face scrunched up, and trying to wave him away. If he didn’t know you were in pain, he would think you were incredibly annoyed. Perhaps you were. Perhaps this is not a state many have seen you in. 

Two deep breaths later, you push yourself up and start batting away at his helping hand. You don’t seem keen on relying on his help and he’s not one to impose it on someone who does not want it (not that the opportunity has come up often). 

As you pass, however, the sounds of a rumbling catches his attention. It takes him a moment to realize it was your stomach. 

You don’t even seem to have the energy to be embarrassed about it. 

“Don’t follow me,” you warn darkly, boding no compromise. 

He’s tempted to do so just to spite you—it’s not as though you could even attempt to resist in your condition—but stays where he is to watch you press a hand against the Cellar door (of all things), which beeps after a moment and slides open far swifter than should be possible for a door of such thickness and size. 

The door reveals a hallway or a tunnel, dotted by flickering lights that slowly turn on in your presence as if welcoming you. There could be doors on the side, but it’s difficult to tell. Some posters, aging and peeling, are plastered inside. The floor is covered in a different tile than that of the kitchen, and every so often, the scruffy tile is replaced by a strip of something grainy. It’s notably dirtier than the floor in the kitchen, well-used and a little ill-maintained. 

And you stand there, gathering your breath, haloed by the doorway as its only defender and current refugee. 

It would not be hard to attack you from behind, knock you out, and find out the truth of what lies beyond. But the thought of doing it this way—too easy, too cowardly—makes his lip curl and something vile curl up inside. Assassin as he may have been, this is not a mission of that sort, and you are not a target. 

The door closes the instant you pass the threshold, bringing an end to his brief moment of contemplation, firmly keeping him out and leaving him alone in the desolate kitchen. 

He never guessed he’d be allowed to stand here without the threat of you chasing him out. This would normally be a very ideal situation, but he’s already passed up the easy chance to go into the Cellar, it hardly seems worth the effort. 

Now that he’s not being attacked or waiting for an ambush, he can study the place more leisurely. It’s not much different than the last time he was here. He runs a hand over one silvery counter and comes up with nothing. Everything is still meticulously clean, but evidences of having been used—scratches, stains, the general feeling of worn-ness, if that makes any sense—is visible on every centimeter of this place. 

The walk-in freezers are lined with more items than before and previously empty containers are now fulfilling their purposes. Darkly, he wonders what happens if these were to go empty. Maybe it’s happened before and he just never noticed, or you never gave them the chance to notice. 

He grabs a glass from a neatly lined shelf and fills it with water from one of several sinks and waits, fiddling with his communicator in his pocket just in case he needs to call Dr. Zielger. If you require medicine, chances are your problem is not something his meager medical knowledge could help with. 

There’s also the other possibility of you collapsing on the other side with no way of calling for help. In which case, you’d likely die without anyone having known. Unless…? 

“Athena.” 

He almost jumps when he feels rather than hears the AI’s voice coming from the communicator he has in his hand. “Yes, Agent Hanzo?” 

“Are you in contact with the chef at the moment?” 

She pauses for a bit before answering. “Affirmative. The chef currently has a communicator and as such, I am able to establish contact if required.” 

Hanzo stares at the Cellar door; now you’ve become a part of its secrets. If you truly perish behind that door, the secret of its bowels will likely go down with you provided that no other chef returns here. Even worse, no one except for himself would know what happened. Would you even have the strength to call out for help? Would you have the presence of mind to call Athena? Would he be able to open that door himself without preparations? 

With those thoughts plaguing his mind, he grips the glass tightly in his hand and the communicator in the other, eyes intently on the door, waiting for it to open. 

A minute becomes two, then five, then ten. 

The panic at his neck, previously muted, becomes an insistent pressure that churns his nerves. He’s waited long enough. “Athena. Establish contact wi—” 

The door slides open in that instant and you walk out, a little steadier, but no better beyond that. You tilt your head as though confused. 

“Ah, you’re still here?” 

He does not grace you with an answer, a little indignant, and instead hands you the glass he’s been holding. It’s lukewarm now, but it’s better than nothing. You blink at his gesture, a little unsure, and staring at his offering like you’ve never seen it before, but he has no time for this and thrusts the glass in your direction again. “Drink.” 

Your hands tremble as you take the glass from him, and Hanzo is all too aware of your touch—a little too warm, your grip a little too weak—and the feeling of it lingers even as you move away. His own fingers tingle and he flexes them to get rid of it. 

“Thank you.” 

You drain the cup, refill it—nearly tipping onto him as you try to do so, and he has hold you by your upper arm to keep you from falling over—and finish it off again. 

“You took your medicine then?” 

You nod. 

“Do you need anything else?” 

You shake your head and tug your arm away with a lot less force than he knows you can exert. He lets you go, but keeps a watchful eye as you make your way back to the Cellar door and press your back against it, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, the glass gripped loosely in your trembling hands. 

The quiet is disconcerting, made even more so by this situation. 

Here he is, a grown assassin, babysitting a cook. This situation feels far too close to memories he wants gone and buried lest they imposed themselves here, dredging up the same emotions that led up to his willing participation in a tragedy. 

Without prompting, you begin to speak. “I should be the one asking you if you need anything. I'm sorry you have to see me like this, but please, don't tell anyone.” 

Though your remorse different sharply from those distant memories. He crosses his arms, looking down at you sternly, but not unconcerned. “If you are unwell, why are you working?” 

“I'm not sick or anything. It's not contagious.” 

“Then what is it?” 

You fidget with the glass in your hands, and more than once, Hanzo thought it would slip from your hands. You keep your eyes down, shoulders hunched in, guilty and ashamed. It seems that the sympathy that he had long thought evaporated in his youth still exists somewhere and he bends down until he’s squatting on the floor. 

“I have…stomach ulcers and…acid reflux,” you murmur. Regardless of how quiet you try to be, your words echo clearly in this space. Hanzo’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He wasn’t aware—not that he had any reason to be. “I can’t—I mean, I can, but…eating is difficult and sometimes I just…forget.” 

You fall silent and don’t offer any explanation as to how this came to be. There’s no reason to pry, especially if you’re not feeling particularly forthcoming with it. And somehow, he gets the sense that this was meant to be kept under wraps. Another secret of yours that you have seemed him worthy enough to share with. 

Somehow, it feels like a very precious responsibility. Far too precious for him to be holding. 

He wonders just how many other people know. Dr. Zielger and maybe Winston. 

“You do not seem to be in the habit of forgetting things.” 

You laugh, but it rings hollow. 

“Madame Zielger said it would be handled if I were diligent about it, but…I’ve just been...busy.” 

He supposes he understands and has no premise to lecture you on—he himself has been subjected to something similar about his liver and other issues that he had pointedly ignored throughout the years. While there are a good number of underground doctors in Japan and even more outside of it, he hadn’t taken the time to undergo a general physical, only visiting them for immediate emergencies and nothing more. Though, most of the time, his avoidance is on purpose and may or may not be stemming from his desire to feel _something_ other than the zombie-like fog he's been encased in during the past ten years. But what distracts you so? Surely it can't be your duty that keeps you from your health. Is cooking for a base of under twenty people really so strenuous that you can neglect your health? 

...or are you also running from something? Punishing yourself for something? 

The thought makes his mouth go dry. 

No. Not everyone is like him. You, least of all. 

Derailing himself from the intrusive line of thought, he grasps upon something else. “Why do you call her Madame…?” 

You look up, a little surprised and then you raise the glass to your lips, a poor attempt to smother the smile that takes over your face. It’s a softer look, a better one, one that knocks something loose inside his chest and makes breathing simultaneously easier and harder. “It was something the Head Chef used to do. I guess I just picked it up. That and maybe a few other habits.” 

“Such as?” 

Slyly, you grin. “That's a secret.” 

“Hmph. Aren’t you full of them,” he says dryly, but with none of the barb. 

It just sounds like another challenge to him. 

That night felt like the beginning of something less distant, like some wall between the both of you have thinned. (Even more so now that he had your contact information to remind you to take your medicine—Hanzo really does not want to find out what happens when a chef is unavailable.) It's difficult to not want to throw this encounter into McCree’s face as well—he had _seen_ the inside of the Cellar whereas the rest of Overwatch could not so much as get near it. It's an accomplishment that keeps his mood up. 

That is, until you decided to be a meddling nuisance. 

Hanzo can’t help the grimace that takes over his face at the memory that landed him up here in the first place. 

He had been called down from his room for dinner—a little unusual as it was well before the time where the word ‘dinner’ no longer applied to whatever meal he was eating, however, he dismissed it even though something in the back of his mind tingled with suspicion. But it’s you, he had reasoned. What harm could you do? Give him more bell peppers? 

He huffs a laugh to himself. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to waste food unnecessarily and feed any of them something you know would be ill-received. 

However, the reason he was called down would have been far worse, far crueler than he would have imagined. 

The sight that greets him is not unlike a party; everyone on base is there, drink bottles decorate the table and there’s a carefree chatter that fills up the incredibly large space with more ease than expected. 

But what surprises him most is the fact that you’re standing there out in the open, waiting, and he has to take a moment to process it. You wear an expectant smile on your face, a bowl and ladle (too short to hit him if he kept his distance properly) in your hands. 

“Bout time you got here,” grouses Torbjörn. 

“Have a seat, Agent Hanzo. Everyone’s been waiting for you.” You gesture at the table, but he instead keeps his eyes on you, stricken a little by the contrasting imposition of a memory and the reality before him. 

You look a lot less angry than he remembers. It's difficult to see you when you're working in the kitchen even if he is leaning into the window. It's different. You stand a little straighter, perhaps to be more presentable, and your posture is awkwardly formal like a newly hired maitre d’. 

A snarky comment comes to the surface, but he holds his tongue. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you out here and it would probably not end at just one single pepper this time if he were to say anything about it, so he just nods his thanks. 

He takes a step forward to do so, but he stops short, the reality of the situation slamming into him with knee-buckling speed as soon as he sees the table in its entirety. 

There’s only one seat available at the table and it’s right at the edge of one of the long, long tables, right beside Genji. 

Hanzo’s jaw tenses to the point of pain, his breathing slows and gains a weight that steadily crushes his insides. 

He can feel everyone’s expectant gazes on him. 

“Come on, come on, we’ve been waiting!” shouts Junkrat. He’s shushed by those surrounding him, but Torbjörn is already drinking something and mumbles, “Come on, prince. Ya going to let your problems keep us from eating? Peh.” 

“We’re having jjigae! Come on!” 

“Join us!” 

“Reinhardt, don’t move so much, you’ll hurt your back again.” 

His stomach twists violently, and for the second time ever, the acute sense of betrayal stabs at him—of everyone here whom he had expected to stay out of his personal business, of everyone here whom he trusted. 

His thoughts trail off and he doesn't even know why he ever assumed any of that at all. 

Anger, still slow, but soon to be broiling in his gut, makes him discard the possibility that it may not have been a scheme of your own volition or because some other meddling fool asked for it. It does not matter; this is for him to solve and his private life is not a circus to be put on display for everyone else to gawk at and attempt to fix. He is an adult. He is a Shimada. And while he will regret a chance to eat, he bites out, “I am not hungry.” 

The mixed chorus of his name only fuels his desire to make himself scarce that much quicker. 

“Wait, Agent Hanz—!” 

“Leave me!” 

He swings behind him half-heartedly, not really thinking, but he feels something against the back of his hand and then his stomach falls into the ground when he hears it: a sharp crash and the splash of liquids. 

The tension in the room is as oppressive as the silence, but he does not bother turning around, doesn’t look anyone in the face, doesn’t look you in the face. 

“Hanzo. Brother, yo—” 

“You have no right to call me that!” And then, 「What ‘brother’?! What ‘Hanzo’?! Neither of those things do not belong in your mouth.」 

「You—!」 

He powers straight out of the kitchen, doesn't even listen to the clamoring behind him, and into his room where he fishes out the alcohol Mei had so graciously bought him from her trip. He hid himself away on the rooftops of the Watchpoint where he was sure no one would look or dare reach before he drinks himself into a stupor. The result of it is himself, here, waking up to the splash of rain trying to choke him, with nothing but the darkened heavens blanketing the skies, and the pull of a hangover, reminiscing on the past few days. 

He clenches his teeth and exhales. 

Foolish. 

All because of your needless meddling, because of this stupid group’s interference, all his plans have gone up in flames. 

He had lowered his guard, had tricked himself into believing something that was not reality. 

There was no one to blame but himself. It was his fault he did not handle business faster, that he was such a coward, that he had let a false sense of sentimentality get the better of him. 

In the end, he really didn't come to terms with anything. 

He didn’t gain anything from coming here—to Overwatch. 

He just ran away from it all. 

‘Coward.’ 

Being called “brother” by someone he didn’t truly acknowledge as his brother was unsettling and painful. Being called plain “Hanzo” by someone who could have been (may actually be) his brother is even worse. 

But who could he blame? 

It was himself who decided to use his first name as an alias—he hadn't thought he cared, didn’t think it would matter here, so far away from Japan and away from traditions and— 

—he thought he could have a new start here. 

That he could begin moving toward a future again. 

But he didn’t account for just how horrifying it would be, how terrifying it is to face your past or own up to it. Why is it so hard? 

—“ _Hanzo! Brother!”_

_“You have no right to call me that!_ ”— 

Genji always knew how to ruin things with too many careless words—the clan, his position, his own relationships. But maybe in that same vein, Hanzo may have also ruined things with too few words. 

Despite the cold, his body and eyes burned. 

Is the coward’s way the way of Shimada, Hanzo? 

A shaky sigh escapes him. 

He’s so very tired. 

He should return inside. 

Carelessly, he raises an arm and flops it over across his torso to use as leverage to turn himself over. He gets about partway, leaning heavily on his other elbow with his vision swimming, before he notices a movement. 

Hanzo watches with a moment’s of drunken indifference as the bottle that Mei had brought him, partially empty, begins to roll away. 

He stares and stares until it gets about halfway away before he's stricken by a panic and lunges for the bottle. His entire body slips against the rain-slicked roof. His arm and shoulder sweeps off the sloped edge. the bottle rolling right off away from him and falling into the dark depths below. He could only hang precariously on the edge in muted horror—both at his actions (for a mere _bottle_ , for heaven’s sake) and the loss of the remainder of his drink. The fear colder than the rain seeps into his bones and the ground simultaneously rushes and runs from his vision. 

He thinks he hears the crash, but then he’s absolutely certain he hears shouting after. Hanzo lets his arm and head fall, teeth clenched tight as his stomach contents writhe for freedom. 

If this world had any mercy, it would not be you who witnesses him breaking yet another thing. But at this point, he’s not even sure he deserves it. 

“Agent Hanzo?!” 

He withdraws his arm from the edge of the roof and struggles to slide himself deeper toward the center. 

He’s not a coward. 

He’s just has a sense of self-preservation. 

* * *

A metal bowl rolls some short distance from the table it fell from until it knocks into the foot of a fallen omnic, still sparking at the neck and chest. The bowl clatters, almost an impromptu drumroll that heralds the shadow which drops over the fallen man, who curses just as rapidly as he blinks, trying to get his vision free of shimmering spots. 

"Overwatch Operational Department, field logistics division ex-agent, Tanuja Singh Deshmukh?" 

The chef’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, teeth bared. 

“My name is _Asim_ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with the release of this chapter; we're slowly getting to the parts that I am excited to write about--give or take two chapters. (If you find any mistakes in this, please do let me know so I can correct them. Thank you.)


	12. Chapter 12

Hanzo, despite his less-than-stellar display of maturity, was surprisingly granted a mission, and he had taken it with such speed, there was no time for anyone to protest (or for you to have made an appropriate lunchbox). It was merely surveillance around Gibraltar, but that must have been more appealing than remaining in the incredible awkwardness at the base.

His absence, however, did little to alleviate the oppressive air in the sparsely occupied Watchpoint. Genji had made himself scarce, and when he was available, was noticeably more distant. Zenyatta’s presence probably did a lot to ease the uncertainty that weighs on the cyborg. 

Though, McCree did not know who he felt worse for: Genji or you. 

The others had a lot of say about the matter, but McCree cannot consider himself so morally superior that he allowed himself to gripe. The feelings of the Shimada brothers’ are sticky in ways that even those on moral high ground should not comment on—the deed was done and over with, the main thing now is how they feel _now_ and how they’re going to go about handling it. It’s one thing if it’s between themselves, it’s another if they’re going to drag innocent people in their cautious yet reckless game of feelings and painful memories. 

You, especially. 

After that fiasco, you confined yourself to the kitchens, making quick work of small talk and any attempts to coax you to come out. 

McCree tsk’s to himself. You had made such good progress, too. Ana, if she hadn't been away on a mission, would’ve been proud. 

It’d be a lie to say the kitchen is the most welcoming place on base. Head Chef Richard was quite generous and lavish in his own way, feeding people just the right amount (neither left wanting nor bursting) with just the right foods—but despite his creed for serving and loving his customers, his priority would always fall on the chefs he kept under his wing. Through his numerous escapades, McCree had long suspected the kitchens were built in such a way that the entire place was both a fortress and a prison, keeping out intruders and holding them in to be dealt with when the time came even without chefs inside. In some ways, this place was better safeguarded than other places in the Watchpoint. 

If you really wanted to lock yourself in there, you could and no one would be able to get you out. Similarly, if you truly wanted to keep people out, the kitchen could be on lockdown faster than most would be able to react. The reason for it was assumed to be because of the ‘treasure’, but McCree isn’t so sure.

“Ain’t like you t’ be standin’ still, Chef,” McCree says as he walks into the darkened mess hall and toward the service window where you stood. If he wasn’t expecting it, it would be a creepy sight to behold: a single, unmoving figure in the middle of the brightest light in the entire cafeteria, finer features obscured by shadows. “Head Chef would throw a fit if he saw you doin’ nothin’.” 

Instead of the flustered outburst he expects, you remain quiet, hands folded neatly on the counter as though waiting for something. He could fathom a guess for what—or _whom_. 

He drags a stool to the window and sits. From this spot, he can almost see the washing station and a shocking amount of dishes stacked. They don’t seem dirty, but it just looks like they were left there after being cleaned. A troubling sign. 

Gently, he tries again. “Hour’s late, Chef. Whatcha doin’ up?”

“...I’m just thinking,” you reply slowly, voice lacking in any energy or enthusiasm. 

He makes a noise in his throat. “That so?” 

“...yeah.” 

The silence settles uncomfortably between you both. He sighs internally and decides to cut to—what he believes to be—the chase. “He doesn’t hate you.” 

Your fingers twitch and your hands curl into fists before unfurling and curling again. “...how are you so sure?”

Because you’re obvious and Hanzo is not as unreadable as he believes himself to be. 

“Callin’ me a liar now? Mighty bold of ya.” 

Jesse expects a laugh or some sort of reaction, not the deafening silence that sounds of guilt and something all too familiar. 

“It’s between him and Genji. It ain’t your fault you got caught up in it.” 

“If I didn’t decide to make a group meal then…” 

“It wasn’t about your cookin’ or how you did it.” It was a fine set-up and wonderfully alive. If it weren’t for the Shimadas’ issues, it would have been an excellent affair that was reminiscent of the old, old Overwatch. The stew was spicy and if McCree was being honest, he’d really rather eat that combination that reminds him of his time on the road rather than the neatly arranged meals you normally make. (Not that they’re not delicious, but there’s just something charming about eating food that is more...appropriate for his person.) 

“But he didn’t even take a _lunchbox_ when he left.” Despite how distressed you sound, he couldn’t help a smile. 

“Bet you cried yourself to sleep over that.”

“Did not.” 

He raises an eyebrow and the silence, a little more bearable, seems to unnerve you and eventually you concede with a huff, “I didn’t _cry_.” 

“...but you’re still feelin’ responsible.”

You throw up your hands and begin to pace as though you’ve meant to do it for a long time. “I should have known! I—” 

“Known what? That everyone was goin’ to leave that seat open? That Hanzo would react like that? That we’d have to practically tackle Genji to the ground? You almost got clocked in th’ head with a flyin’ bottle and you still feel like it’s your fault?” He scoffs. “You ain’t psychic and it ain’t your responsibility to keep track of all that.” 

“But it _is_ ,” you insist. “It’s the least I can do.”

He wants to groan and slap his face and barely manages to resist doing either. “Not this again.” 

“It’s true!” You stop right in front of him, slamming your hands somewhere above the partition. “I'm not a _hero_ like you!”

“Ain't never claimed t’be one neither.”

“But you're out _there_ ”—and you gesture wide toward some unseen horizon or an imagined place that McCree is sure does not exist—“fighting and risking yourselves and I'm…”

Your hands and your whole body just slumps.  

“And I'm in _here_.”

The silence that follows is almost damning. 

There’s always been some sense of self-imposed responsibility from the support-type staff. Well, he can’t say that he was innocent in the matter—long ago, he loathed the easy-going pace of the desk-job people and paper-pushers and those who work with Overwatch but never ever see battle. Why did they get to complain when he’s out risking his hide? Why should people get to live because they’ve got money? Why do those people get to boss them around? (It’s one of the reasons why he liked Reyes so much more than Jack. The former got his hands dirty with the rest of his crew, the latter locked himself up in his offices and meetings. Jesse didn’t care about the heroic stories he was told, he just knows what he saw and what he saw was Jack being a damn sellout.) 

But meeting people like you, who are _too_ attached to the idea of ‘responsibility’, he can’t bring himself to be upset. Everyone has their own role to fill, their own troubles, and McCree learned after several years here that people like you probably take it harder than them. He can lose himself in the adrenaline and the missions, but you can only do your best, cooking for agents who are too strung out to appreciate the power of a decent meal and fling it back in your face. It’s too easy to think of the agents’ problems as your fault when it’s their fault for not managing themselves properly. 

“It ain’t like you t’ get so worked up over one person. Other people lost their minds over the food before and you didn’t act like this.” 

“But that was…” 

That was long ago, when you weren’t alone to bear the burden of a discarded meal, when you did not feel so directly responsible, when you had the Head Chef to buffer you. Or is it because of something else? 

He knows, vaguely, what you had been doing before you came back to Overwatch. He would have guessed that your skin would’ve been thicker after your ordeals. But for a single person to rattle your cage—

“If it’ll make y’feel better, I’ll hunt him down for you, make ‘im apologize,” he offers.

You snort like you don’t think he is serious—oh, but he’s very serious, no matter how nonchalant he had tried to make the offer seem. It’d be interesting to get Hanzo speaking heartfelt apologies with Peacekeeper against his temple. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’s contemplated it (but for different reasons). Jesse wonders if Genji would help, but banishes the idea quick. That might just make things more grisly than it had to. 

“I think you should be the one apologizing, too.” 

He starts and tries to look at you through the wall. “Me? What’d I ever do?”

“You told Agent Hanzo about the Cellar!” 

“And who told you _I_ told him?” 

“Agent Genji, of course.” 

That son of a—

Jesse smacks himself in the back of the neck and rubs it twice. Well, it wasn’t that much of a secret anyway. He supposes it’s his just deserts—or in this case, just desserts?  

“Guess I have _two_ Shimadas to go after,” he says wryly, leaning against his palm, directing a smile up at you that he forgets that you cannot see. “Gotta get justice for the both of us.” 

“I don’t think it’s really getting ‘justice’, Jesse.” 

He shrugs. “Someone wronged you, so it’s only proper t’get even, ain’t it?”

“I don’t—That’s not right.” 

“It ain’t like it’s the first time you’ve got into a tiff with somebody. ‘Member the first time you ‘nd I fought? You kicked me and threw the whole tray at me.” 

“You slapped it out of my hands!” 

“And we both got a helluva lecture from your boss for wastin’ food.” 

He gets something like a cross between a choked laugh and a noise of anguish. It’s not what he’s aiming for, but the night’s young. 

“You don’t know it, but Reyes chewed my ass out after.” 

“And Head Chef put my on cleaning duty for a week since the extra food was unauthorized.” 

“Hey, I put it in the terminal all good and proper. It was one of you messin’ with me that caused all of that.” 

“That’s because you tried to disguise yourself as a chef!”

The cowboy pulls out his pack of cigarillos and lights one, much to your horror. He grins to himself. Good. 

“Good times.”

“Don’t smoke,” you chide with no real malice. “You’ll ruin your tastebuds.” 

“Ain’t nothin’ that can ruin how I taste your cookin’, it’s just _that_ good,” he quips, taking a loud and overly obnoxious drag just to hear you groan in frustration and embarrassment. He smirks to himself. That’s a better reaction. 

You wave your hand at the smoke, trying to push it back in his direction to very little avail. For good measure, he even blows a stream in your direction, delighting in the way you swat at it. “Stop that. It’ll get into the kitchen.”

“I’ll help you clean it.” 

“Oh? That’s very generous.”

“What can I say?” He shrugs and tips his hat with a grin. “I’m a gentleman.” 

Grumbling, you ask to yourself, “What sort of gentleman smokes in a kitchen?” You cross your arms and he can swear you are looking down at him. “I remember when you used to use that trick to try to get in here.” 

“Did I now? Can’t remember. Old age must be gettin’ to me.” Even though he clearly recalls having offered his help just so he could get one step closer to the phantasmal treasure that the members of Blackwatch kept conspiring about. It did not succeed, of course. 

You make some noise of disbelief and pull out an ashtray from somewhere below the window, slipping it onto the table with a loud ‘clack’. Your message is clear, but he just waits. 

And waits, and waits. 

Until you cave. “I’m going to make Meatloaf Surprise,” you warn sternly. “And I’ll have Gen—Captain Amari help me.”

He can’t contain his grimace. “Please don’t.” The meatloaf is enough of a threat, but throwing Ana into the mix was just unfair even if she isn’t on base. Taking in one last delicious pull, he snuffs out the end. (Though he can’t say he’s completely displeased with the results—you are coming back out of your imposed silence.) 

Seemingly satisfied with his actions, you say, “Thank you.” 

He stares  forlornly at his snuffed-out cigarillo, itching to put it back between his lips now that he’s had a taste. He's sure you would actually serve him meatloaf if he did. And he would eat it. 

“Chef, can I get some coffee then?” 

“Use the terminal, please.” But even as you say that, you’re already moving around inside the kitchen. He grumbles a bit as he leans over the length of the counter to punch in his order. “Let me guess, a red-eye for this late hour?”

His finger hovers over the submit button. “Nah.” _Beep_. “‘s a _dead-eye_ kind of night.” 

You choke on a laugh, and already, the kitchen seems a little brighter with the echo of it. “Did you just—” 

“E-yep.” 

Then the laughter pours out as though it’s been waiting to come out this whole time.

As long as you were feeling better, he could honestly say he’s done his good deed for the day. (The day’s still early, too.)  

The days pass by in a haze. Jesse drops by often, insisting on talking with you and being a general nuisance. (Though, you can’t say you’re upset about it. The former Blackwatch agent always had a way of making you talk.) 

Jesse was right, regardless. You have other priorities to worry about—you’ve never worried so much about another agent before. 

But it’s also the first time—second time after a younger Jesse—you were able to be so close with your customers. Back in the day, you would be taking the orders and making them without truly knowing the faces of the people you served. You’d see their name, look them up in the kitchen’s database if you did not know their habits, and cook. There was still that gap that never truly allowed you to connect with them.   

Now, it’s different. You could actually ask them, talk to them, see their reactions, share their joy. 

It’s not something you really ever thought of before, but it’s truly a truly precious feeling to have someone’s eyes and face light up when they take that very first bite. Even more so when they finish everything and ask for seconds. 

—“ _We chefs exist for them._ ”—

It always sounded a little asinine, but with each day here, you think you’re getting closer to what the Head Chef once meant. You’re sure that if you never saw their expressions or received their thanks, you’d still think of food and cooking more shallowly.

Seeing Agent Junkrat lose his mind over something simple like fruit salad—or any fruit in general—was beyond endearing. You couldn’t help but indulge him if only just to see him happy (even if it did eat at your limited inventory). Agent Roadhog, as silent as he was, always seemed to take special care to eat everything clean, thanking you. Mock arguing with Agent Reinhardt about his diet was also fun. He always insisted on bratwurst and fatty substances for his physique only to concede and laugh the exchange off after a few words, leaving with less than you would’ve expected.

Agent Hanzo, though unexpected, definitely caught your attention the most. His sharp features softening into something warmer, younger when eating sweets. It was comforting to watch, strange as it sounds, to see him enjoy himself especially when he always seemed to hold the world at arm’s length. 

The nights where Agent Hanzo comes down to drink tea or to eat really puts into perspective the Head Chef’s words. Just by serving him and seeing him eat so earnestly really makes you think that perhaps being a chef was a worthy cause in life if only to help these heroes through the day. 

Long ago, the Head Chef would lecture about the agents. How the food you (and every other chef makes) becomes a part of them and that their bodies are made from the food you made. As such, all that they eat must be filled with love. For these agents—these _heroes_ —miles away from home and fighting a war that most people only see through a holoscreen, can easily lose faith and forget the feeling of humanity, and therefore must be loved and nurtured lest they become nothing more than beasts. 

—“ _Love them with all our being_.”— 

Though, you couldn’t say that you loved every agent. 

Deadpan, you stare at the tray Agent Soldier: 76 dropped off. Even from this distance, you can see the food piled up on it, scarcely touched as always. You scrub at your face with your sleeve. 

He likes _nothing_. Indian, Mediterranean, Chinese, French, German, Italian—none of those cuisines have ever caught his fancy, none of those foods have ever received anything more than a nibble despite having one of the highest calorie requirements among all of the agents here. How can you give anyone _love_ if they refuse to have it? What use was pouring in effort if it’s rebuffed? 

What does he even eat?

You bite back a groan of frustration even as it claws at you, begging you to voice you discontent and perhaps find Agent Soldier: 76 and give him a good shake or a whack with a ladle or maybe (as unlikely as it is) knock him out and shove food down his throat. 

The thought is waved away just as quickly as it comes. No, it's likely not any fault of his own. Maybe he just doesn't like your cooking. 

It’s a painful reality to admit, but it’s a humbling one. 

It'd be wonderful if he could give a critique or just let you know what he likes—you can't take requests immediately, but the next shipment can be tailored to accommodate him—yet the radio silence he gives you is woefully inadequate in helping you move forward. Each week produces different types of food, but each time produces nothing but a barely touched tray. It’s past the point of being a challenge and stepping dangerously into the realm of making you throw down your apron and leaving the Watchpoint for good. 

It was a dangerous balancing act where even the greatest thanks from all agents could be negated simply by Agent Soldier: 76’s apparent refusal to eat anything you make. You cannot give up just because of one person. Your mission is more than just cooking for one person, more than just cooking for a group of agents, and so you remind yourself that you must remain strong. 

Resigning yourself to life’s occasional hiccups, you pick up the tray when you pause. 

Curiously enough, one plate remained among the different dishes. It’s rectangular, a little smaller and half-hidden among the others, but even more striking is that it’s the only empty plate among other partially eaten dishes. 

Hastily, you pick up it up, looking it over, turning it in your hands. 

Just what did you…? 

Apple pie. There was apple pie on this plate. A few crumbs of flaky crust left behind, but the pie itself is nowhere to be found, a clearing through a dollop of sauce that looks suspiciously like someone wiped a finger through it. 

_Finally_. 

A happiness you haven’t felt in a while bubbles up rapidly inside you, pressing up against your chest, blooming, warming everything in its path until it reaches your face. 

“Are you kidding me?” you ask no one, half-hysterical. 

He _ate_ something you made. Completely. 

You press a hand to your mouth, choking on emotion and a victory hard won, breath stuttering and your eyes entirely too warm. 

_He ate the pie_.

You should make more. 

Abandoning cleaning duty, you rush across the kitchen and tear into the walk-in freezer, the crisp and chilly air does nothing to dampen your newfound spirits. How many more pies can you make? Should you adjust the recipe? Oh, but you don’t know his preferences, what about the pie did he like? The flakiness? The way the apples were sliced? The types of apples that were used? 

Just what did he like so much about the pie? 

The fruit make their way into your arms as your mind furiously burns through the options. 

If even Agent Soldier: 76 liked these, then this would surely please Agent Hanzo—

The thought of the archer makes you stop in your tracks. 

Agent Hanzo would have enjoyed this, would have taken a bite that’s almost too big for his mouth and maybe smiled that secretive smile when he tastes something he enjoys, may have even closed his eyes and breathed in and sighed a little. A bitter smile crosses your face. If only he were here. You’re sure he would’ve loved this. 

You shake your head. No, you have other customers to focus on. 

What expression did Agent Soldier: 76 make when he ate this? Was it just as soft? Did he smile? Would he have taken a pause to savor it after the first bite? 

You couldn’t help but smile wide, shouldering your way back into the kitchen with ingredients nearly spilling out of your arms. It wouldn’t hurt to make more or to go astray from your menu. Just once. 

Just this once. 

Nothing could bring down your mood as you began to measure your ingredients, all else forgotten. 

You’re in the middle of putting the rolled out crusts into the freezer when your communicator rings. It takes a moment until your hands are free, but you light up when you see who’s calling. 

“...boss?”

“Asim, good to hear from—” 

“Boss.” His tone, cold and curt, makes you stop in your tracks. “We need you back here.”

“Wh—” 

“ _Auditors_.” 

Your breath comes up short and the dread seeps into your bones, freezing them with full-bodied fear, and your previous elation comes crashing down. 

Auditors? From what organization? And why now? The fiscal year isn’t even over yet and you’re sure that last year’s documents were submitted properly—

“They’re asking for all our documents, our ledgers, our—” He takes a shuddering breath. “Boss, you _have to_ come back.” 

Without even thinking, you utter, “Asim, don’t—don’t let them take more than they already have. Tell Argus—hold them off while I…” 

You brain struggles to form words as plans and concerns flying through them at rapid-fire speed. 

You need to go to them—what about your data—how long have they been there—no, you need to let Winston know—but it could be too late—you need to—but Overwatch—but the auditors—how did—

Your feet sway and you cannot decide what you need to do first.

Asim hisses, loud and insistent in your ear, “Boss! We don’t have time! We need you. Now!” 

_But—_

You suck a hard breath through your teeth. 

“I’ll be right over.”

And the communications cut off.

The freezer door rattles loudly as you slam it shut, and you almost jam your wrist trying to get the Cellar door open. The door opens then closes after you, lights flickering on automatically after you have already ran past them. 

It’s irresponsible to leave Overwatch hanging, but this took precedence. You must see the extent of what the auditors have seen, what they have. If they find out about your operations, Overwatch would be in terrible danger and everything you would have done—all your _sacrifices_ —would have been for nothing.

You could only hope that you’re not too late. 


	13. Chapter 13

「Talon. Five grunts. Have not emerged since 03:40. Civilians potentially involved.」

He marks down their locations on pen and paper and in a shorthand near extinct in the age of handheld devices and advanced recording technology. Despite what some people say, traditional methods have their place in the current world.

(Long ago, he nor Genji had a love for stenography, but their father insisted and their mother encouraged it. He had wanted to please them both and worked hard at it, earning his mother’s gracious praise even though she was so much better: writing without skipping a beat or pause, fluid against paper like breathing. She _awed_ him.

It’s fair to say his mother was proficient at anything resembling the arts or dealt with grace—martial arts, even, was a dance to her and dance, a martial art—overly attentive and focused _just so_ , exceeding deliberate at everything from the tilt of her face to the inch of her step; the very model _Yamato Nadeshiko_ with a gentle and endearing Kyoto accent that disguised a raging river and a passion. Warm and still at times, cold and unstoppable at others. A force to be feared by the clan, and a person to be respected and loved by her family. Distant as her memory is, he remembers the songs she used to sing with their father—he doubts Genji would remember; he was too young, too flippant to sit still and listen to their mother’s rich voice, too young to miss it. Too young to have missed _her_ like Hanzo does.)

With a pensive sigh though his nose and a single rub at his aching eyes, he continues his notes until they are detailed to his satisfaction, briefly interrupted by his raising binoculars to his eyes.

Winston wants to know Talon's movements and who they’re working with, but specifically ordered him to not engage them. Hanzo has seen people who could resemble the dramatic organization around, catching glimpses of them among the sea of people in the narrow streets of Gibraltar, trying too hard to blend in and looking just a bit too dangerous to pass off as innocent. He does not know _why_ they’re here, but it is likely because they know Overwatch plans on returning.

The objective of the mission itself is simple, but it’s difficult to do in such a small community. Gibraltar was miniscule even when compared to his Hanamura. The community here is tight-knit, prone to the same sights and the same people and the same habits. He would, undoubtedly, stand out and be remembered if he were to conduct his observations any more openly. That bodes the same for Talon, however.

So he resigns himself to staying to the shadows as much as possible.

But even _that_ is difficult.

He doesn't know how he did not realize it before, but chalks it up to having been flown into Gibraltar in the dead of night and never truly leaving the base since his arrival to explore, but there are a ton of monkeys around that seem all too aware of his presence, their eyes fixated on him no matter where he goes or how he tries to hide. It’s all the more unnerving when at any moment they may open their mouths and alert Talon—or some unsuspecting local—to his whereabouts.

It's no wonder no one else could do this job.

(He tries not to think of Genji being thrown better candidate—he _is_ , but he _wasn't_. Perhaps the Genji is is now. Not the Genji he knew.)

A stab of pain, imagined but no less _real_ , wreaks havoc in his chest. And reluctantly, he lets it.

 _Coward_.

Hanzo revels in the sting for just a brief moment. It keeps him awake in a way that the still tepid night cannot.

He shakes his head, bites the inside of his lip hard.

Focus.

Somewhere below him, the bustle of street vendors and a market sluggishly stirs to life like clockwork.

As soon as he can smell bread from the nearby bakery and sees the fisherman come in with their hauls and laying out their catches of the day, it would already be time for the rest of Gibraltar to catch up.

And time for Talon to make their move.

Hanzo brings binoculars to his eyes again to observe the number of trucks leaving the warehouses that line the opposite shore of the Rock of Gibraltar.

Most of them are fairly routine; he's long memorized their routes throughout the week. There are trucks from all over and ships coming in at all times. There's been suspicious movements among them, however, that do not follow any logic: from the docks down a path that's never the same as any of the previous ones to a single warehouse where nothing ever comes out of, but several cars go into. It's certainly possible that this is paranoia, but to him, it looks like the beginnings of a deal or the transactions of one.

He watches the weavings of different trucks for some time and marks down their destinations, ignoring the growing aches in his joints and muscles, and acutely aware of the sun slowly creeping up.

It seems that Talon is not feeling very active this morning, but it does not mean they will not move later.

Vigilance and patience will always yield rewards. It’s as his teachers once told him: “If you wait by the river long enough, eventually the bodies of your enemies will float by.” Yes, it is not efficient, but time claims all and there is a lot to be said about patience and perseverance as long as one does not tire. Though, Talon is being particularly patient, discreet in ways that does not quite suit their normal style.

It’s peculiar in a way that makes him wonder if he’s not misreading the signs.

He leans back a little into the nook he’s hidden himself in, carefully rolling his stiffened shoulders and shuffles away from the sun’s peeping rays and warmth. The last few days have been exhausting in ways he didn’t really think about before he joined Overwatch.  

Maybe he’s losing his touch or maybe he’s just gotten too stiff from being cooped up at the base while Winston attempts to navigate the minefield that is Overwatch’s international and local legal status. It’s a little strange to say that there feels like something missing from his missions—or rather, there is no opportunity to _say_ anything: there’s no one to speak to.

Would it really be so shameful to say that he...misses the company?

Even when he spoke to no one at the base, there was at least you. You didn’t judge him—or at least, not that he knew since the last time you were both on ‘good’ terms.

He didn’t need friends, but perhaps there was some benefit to not having any enemies on base. Least of all, the hand that feeds him.

Junkrat’s reminder rings mockingly in his head. “ _Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!_ ”

The corners of his mouth turns downward sharply and he takes in a slow breath through gritted teeth. The world must be going mad if he’s taking advice from someone who is as likely to drink a molotov cocktail as he is to throw it.

He really couldn’t get out of the base fast enough after that little incident. He doesn’t know how you feel or how you reacted, just that Athena had pestered him about his meals while he doggedly tore into some MRE’s that he had squirreled away when he first arrived at the base, ignoring persistent calls to go down to the cafeteria to eat and the growing darkness inside that threatened to tear him down.

Not for the first time since he’s left for this mission, he wonders if he shouldn’t make up for it somehow.

It’s not as though he had done anything _wrong_ , but he had been a little rude to you. Maybe. You likely didn’t know anything that was going through his mind at the time. It wasn’t your fault that he overreacted to a stupid seat. It wasn’t your fault that he was too cowardly to take the first step toward...whatever the rest of the meddling team was trying to accomplish. (Not that they should've. He would've done it in due time.)

For the upteenth time, he sighs, the growing bustle of the market below drawing his attention. A little unfocused, he watches the few people meandering the stalls. Some of whom have aprons on beneath their light jackets.

And he has to do a double-take, rapidly scanning the sparse crowd for any sign of a familiar face, and once more just in case.

He breathes a small sigh. Luckily (or unluckily), there were none.

This is normally the time when you both held your...meetings? Rendezvous? He doesn’t quite know what those late-night-early-mornings are. Indulgences, maybe. Moments of peace. At the very least, seeing as how you're not down there, he can take some small comfort in knowing that with his absence, you’re probably sleeping instead of staying up to serve him tea or whatever small treat you’ve cooked up.

Hanzo grimaces.

Just how much time has he stolen from you? Would you, if you had the choice, be down here in the morning? If he wasn’t there, would you be freer?

A particularly loud fisherman begin to advertise his catches for the day, his voice garbled at this distance, but has the intended effect and pulls in a tiny crowd. He finds himself watching the processions of haggling and seemingly satisfied customers coming up and leaving with their prizes.

If he goes down there, would he be able to identify something you could cook with? Maybe bring you back something? Not as an apology, of course, but maybe a gesture of good will?

Unlikely.

Even during his life as a vagrant, he’s never had to cook for himself or pick out produce that’s not already pre-packaged and prepared for him. (And even then, he’s not sure he can tell the difference in quality or that he won’t be cheated if he were to ask the shopkeep.) Japan having spoiled him with its conveniences: a discreet oden cart, a 24-hour convenience store, a small ramen shop; food was always readily available to him. When it wasn’t, he just went hungry, accepting it as the whims of life. However, those times were few and far in between.

Even fewer under your care. You always kept him fed until bursting, pacifying his appetite with seconds and thirds and no complaints.

And what did he ever do to deserve such indulgence?

Simple rice would do—it _should_ do for someone like him.

But you insist on flavorful, fatty, fancy (but not too fancy) meals that remind him of a time he thought was long outside his grasp (not that he didn't sometimes dream of it, waking up with a hand grasping at the lingering tail of a more bountiful, powerful— _meaningful_ —past). You insist on treating him like he’s human, like he’s worthy of anyone’s time, like—

Like you cared.

He shakes himself free of the thought. No, you treat everyone the same way. You’re a professional chef in the same manner he’s a professional assassin. It was appreciated before, but your good intentions—your professionalism—does nothing but hinder him nowadays.

Nothing he eats now tastes quite the same.

No matter how much he consumes, it's not enough to fill the void inside, not enough to satisfy a hunger deeper than his appetite, not enough to reach every empty crevice of his being. He would, even on the mission, wake up at the time of your usual meetings, craving something sweet or some warm drink to begin the day, only to realize he has nothing but a past that he didn’t realize he did not want to go back to.

Trained like some pavlovian dog to wake up and hunger for something that he himself thought himself above and willfully rejected.

You’ve infected him with something.

Slowly ruining his good judgment.

On cue, his stomach rumbles quietly, but not quietly enough that his skin does not prickle with the paranoia of being found.

He grinds a curse between his teeth. Fine.

Perhaps just _once_ he can treat himself so he can stop being distracted by the lack of (good) food in his system. The past few days, he has only been subsisting on store bought sandwiches and easily consumable items. His position may be compromised now anyway and he cannot exactly continue if his stomach insists on being a hinderance. Once that’s done, he can return to his work.

Besides, he reasons with himself, today is the last intended day of the mission anyway. He can orientate himself while eating, get the rest of his mission and notes in order.

With that plan in mind, he abandons his perch and makes his way back down toward the more crowded part of town where he meanders, seeking sustenance while keeping an eye and an ear out for Talon.

It takes nearly an hour for him to find any restaurant open at this time of day and by then, he's ready to throw down his forsaken pride and for back to the Watchpoint and bluster his way through and get you to cook for him.

There’s one restaurant that catches his eye. It sits at the end of a winding road, perhaps once a part of some castle, but now remodeled into something more polished and gleaming with bleached brick and wide windows dressed modestly with translucent curtains.

At the arch of the main door sits a logo, one that he swears he’s seen before: a green heart with what seems to be dragon scales, blooming toward the tapered end. But where?

It’s a distinguished establishment with a standing sign in cursive that he could barely make out, the lines thick at the ends with delicate, thin loops in the middle with a brief menu written underneath. He scrunches his nose a bit when he finds that he cannot read it and almost turns around to find someplace else to patronize when his stomach growls. Loudly.

He supposes he might as well and enters begrudgingly through the old-fashioned wooden doors.  

The first thing he notices is the smell. Warm with the faint aroma of freshly-baked bread, lightened by something more citrius-y. There is the slightest bit of music playing—slow and jazzy—just enough to fill the silence but not enough to survive against prolonged conversation over a whisper.

At the entrance, an omnic greets him.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Cœur d’Artichaut. I am the manager of this humble restaurant, my name is Argus Twenty.”

She is _immaculate_. Her posture is straight and well poised with her hands folded and raised at waist level, her dress clothes—a well-fitted suit with bold stitches, the jacket open and revealing a tightly buttoned blouse—are without wrinkles, and her exterior shows little sign of wear. If he were still assuming the role of the Shimada clan’s young master, he would not have dined anywhere less. Now, it just seems like an excessive luxury.

“Is this your first time with us, Mr…”

“Tanaka. Tanaka, Ichirou.”

The omnic takes a moment to digest the information, likely searching her databases for someone of a familiar face. He doesn’t know whether it’ll be the last mistake he’ll ever make on this forsaken peninsula, but it’s far from the first (of which was _coming here_ ).

“Welcome, Mr. Tanaka,” she says pleasantly. If the face plate could allow her to smile, he’s sure she would. “Party of one?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way, please.” Seamlessly, she picks up a set of menus as she turns her heel and guides him.

He follows her through the mostly empty restaurant, mapping it out in his mind.

At one of the first few tables sits a much older man—skin even darker than his greying hair, mildly dressed with a stern look, unproportionately thick in the middle compared to his long limbs—looking down his nose at a newspaper, sipping what smells to be thick, bitter coffee.

Hanzo is sure, if something were to happen, he’d be able to defeat him. But then, he slowly uncrosses and recrosses his legs, firm lines of muscle casts shadows on his pants betraying the strength that lies beneath his aged look—it sends a slight thrill through him as he briefly imagines what it might be like to fight the unsuspecting man.

The windows they pass are wide enough to comfortably throw his body through without issue and the space between the tables scattered about would allow him to take someone down without disturbing the rest of the scenery.

She leads him to a table closer to the back, secluded with his own window where the light spills across the upper half of the creamy white sheet on the table. The tablecloth is good quality and, upon touching it, seems like it would not tear if he were to wrap it around someone's neck. It might even survive a knife fight depending on how it's utilized.

He sits down on the chair that Argus pulls out for him. It's very stable, unlikely to break after being slammed over someone's head. Excellent. He barely notices her propping up the menus on the table; he's too occupied thinking of the types of attacks this chair can withstand as he leans into it's cushion. Zarya could throw this and it may still come out with all its limbs intact.

“May I start you off with a beverage this morning, Mr. Tanaka?”

He grabs the menu and rifles through it.

“Hot tea. Green.”

“Is there any specific type you would prefer, sir?”

“Moroccan mint.”

“Would you like any sweeteners to accompany your drink?”

“Yes.”

“Honey, sugar, gum syrup, or—”

“All of them.”

To her credit, she doesn't even react to these unreasonable demands. “Understood. One moment, please.”

She bows briefly and walks away to let him digest the place.

It's, in a word, quaint. Clearly high-class, but in a way that is meant to impress only those who know the true value of money.

The breakfast menu is short—in English and some sort of Spanish and splatterings of French—and he easily reads through it in under a minute, noting the distinct lack of price tags. It’s the usual faire, unexpected but not out of place: a basket selection of breads and small pastries, pancakes or crepes with compote, eggs described in unnecessarily fancy ways, and strangely enough, churros. There are some savory options, but none that can prevent his eye from hovering around the thin cursive of _pancakes_.

There's no point to think too much of it. He knows what he likes.

The menu closes with a satisfying and heavy clap and he sets it back down only to pick up a small placard on his table just off to the side.

Having little else to do, he finds himself reading the brief history of this establishment.

> _Cœur d’Artichaut is a for-profit charity-restaurant committed to providing those who have been displaced or in less fortunate circumstances a healthy, hearty meal. Proceeds from each customer and donation is used to support the chefs who volunteer their time, employees, local suppliers, and our mission._
> 
> _The restaurant’s namesake comes from the French idiom, “_ cœur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde _,” meaning “_ the heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone _.” The original idiom refers to a person who falls in love easily, handing out their heart to anyone and everyone. At Cœur d’Artichaut, we believe in giving more than just food; we believe in packing it with love. Each packaged meal is prepared—_

He almost throws the card away, unable to stomach the rest of the idealistic musings of a restaurant who— _for profit_ —believes in handing out something so vague as _love_. Instead, he turns it downward and slides it away from him.

What is wrong with the world that they are tossing such a word around so easily?

It must be some bias, he concludes. One of those paradoxical or psychological things where, having heard it once, he’s now seeing it everywhere.

Not even a full minute later, Argus returns with a full platter and sets it down, feather-light, on his table. An assortment of sugars, sweeteners stand at attention behind a tall vessel and a delicate teacup.

“Moroccan mint green tea,” she explains as she begins to pour him a cup, “made from a blend of fresh spearmint, lemon verbena, and pennyroyal with equal parts formosa gunpowder green tea.”

She sits down the tea vessel and begins to gesture at each of the small bottles.

“From right to left, we have honey, gum syrup, agave, granulated white sugar, light brown sugar, dark brown sugar, cane sugar, white sugar cubes, and more traditionally used with moroccan mint tea, pieces of sugar cone. Please enjoy.”

Before she can walk away, he raises a hand to keep her attention. “I also wish to order.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tanaka.” The lights of her face plate flicker. “What would you have this morning?”

“The pancakes and...anything else you recommend.”

She pauses and tilts her head. “Do you have any allergies or dislikes you would like us to be aware of?”

He debates it for a moment, but returns with, “None.”

“Understood, Mr. Tanaka. I will have the chef prepare something fitting. I ask for your patience.”

The mere mention of a 'chef’ makes his stomach tighten and simultaneously frightens and excites his appetite; Hanzo clenches the edge of his chair to keep himself from bolting off. Unaware of his predicament, Argus walks away again, picking up the menus from his table.

No. It cannot be you. You're at the Watchpoint, probably preparing breakfast for everyone else. Ludicrous of him to even think that it might be you preparing his food.

Hanzo takes a breath and reaches for the tea, feeling silly for having such a visceral reaction to merely a word. He breaths in the steam as though it’ll cleanse him.

It smells heavenly; the refreshing scent cuts through the sleepy quiet of the restaurant and the heavy feeling in his gut.

He holds the cup tightly yet carefully by its porcelain handle. He sips it gingerly and his mouth is flooded with the cooling sensation of mint and contrary warmth. It's not overpowering or bitter, but light and allows him to taste the green tea lying beneath in earnest.

He adds a dollop of honey from the little porcelain pot the manager provided. Tries it. And adds some cone sugar. Another sip, and he adds a dainty spoonful of sugar.

 _Perfection_.

It’s almost too easy to enjoy this tea in this quiet atmosphere where the different tracks of jazz seem to meld into another, the only other sound in the restaurant being the turning of a newspaper. It’s almost too easy to forget who he is, what he’s doing here, the danger that lurks somewhere on this peninsula.

The doors to the restaurant opens again, and Hanzo watched as a man and an omnic in suits walk in. Despite the emptiness of the place, their conversation with Argus does not carry. They are led stiffly to another part of the restaurant out of Hanzo’s line of sight. There is the sound of people walking up stairs, a door closing, and little else before Argus reemerges to return to her station.

He sets down the cup with excruciating care.

As he's waiting, he pulls out his notebook and begins to organize his notes from the past few days. It is unlikely anyone here can read his shorthand. Even if they took pictures of it, it would take forever to find anyone familiar with it.

Notes are rewritten and summarized, all the better for him to present to Winston.  

By the time his food arrives, he's halfway through with his task and _starving_.

“Your pancakes, Mr. Tanaka, with a mixed berry compote topped with a sweetened creme fraiche and salted brown sugar butter syrup on the side. Today, we have included, for your pleasure, a savory bread basket. Please enjoy.”

A modest stack of neat pancakes topped with a carefully scooped round of cream overlapping a palette of melting butter. A mint sprig and a small bed of berries tastefully lean against the side, drops of reddish sauce decorate the square plate that seems to be more for aesthetic effect that once upon a time, he would have judged harshly. On the side is a miniature pitcher of dark, brownish sauce.

It looks and smells acceptable. But what of the taste?

The first slice he makes reveals a slow river of dark compote in between each fluffy disk. He takes a skeptical bite and is rewarded with a multitude of flavors. Warm, buttery pancakes with an underlying milky taste by the sweet and almost overwhelming flavor of berries and berry bits with a cool and hearty dollop of cream on top that’s just as sweet as it is pleasantly tart.

The next bite is accompanied by the sugar-butter sauce and he scarfs it down with less finesse than the establishment may have found acceptable. Each time, he finds a new flavor mixed in somewhere that he hadn't noticed before.

The tea proves to be too sweet and he takes the second cup without any sweetener, relishing in the repeated cycle of rich, sweet pancakes and the refreshing drink of mint.

He has to fight to not finish his breakfast too soon.

They remind him of yours. They're not the same, but there's a balance in them that is not unfamiliar to him. Surely even you would find this acceptable.

The bread basket, too, contains some familiar flavors. It's not so much a basket as it is just a small affair of a few small, fat disks surrounding a small ramekin of something mildly spicy. It's delicious and reminds him of something that Satya might enjoy.

Hanzo narrows his eyes. It's unlikely, but too much of a coincidence. He wipes his mouth on the linens and waves Argus over.

“Is there something the matter, sir?”

“I want to meet the chef who made this meal.”

“Certainly.” Without skipping a beat, she turns and leaves. It must be a common request or he still retains that authoritative edge from his old days.

Now that he's asked, he looks back at the demolished remainder of his meal. He truly hasn't had something so filling since he left the Watchpoint.

Dread crawls up his back and makes his stomach clench sharply.

What would he say if it really is you? What would you say? Would you provide a polite explanation or would you tell him to get out?

Suddenly, his hands feels stiff.

Maybe it wasn't wrong to have thought of all the uses of this furniture after all.

Somewhere else in the restaurant, he can briefly hear the creak of a door and from it escapes a bubble of a heated conversation that he can barely catch before it's quiet again, the door having shut.

Argus returns shortly with someone in tow. He squeezes his hands together before turning his head up, holding his breath just in case.

And breathes a sigh when he finds someone he doesn't recognize standing there—the man’s face sports some lingering yellows and purples that almost blends in with his sun kissed skin like he’s been in a fight, his chef's uniform creased this way and that as though it hadn't been ironed in some time.

He bows at the waist briefly, his choppy, wavy locks flopping forward before they’re shoved back.

“I am the Head Chef here, my name is Asim Singh.”

A laugh or the beginnings of a nervous chuckle almost makes its way out of his mouth, rattling somewhere in his stomach. Right. It was unlikely. Impossible, even. The young man extends a hand and Hanzo shakes it, holding a little tighter than cordially necessary if just to ground himself to the reality that this is not you and to make any transactions beyond this a touch easier. To his surprise, Asim gives it right back to him.

Something other than indifference must have shown on his face, because the chef—Asim—asks, withdrawing his hand, “Is something the matter, Mr. Tanaka?”

“No, not at all. I wanted to...compliment you on this meal.”

The man beams and his chest seems to puff out in a way that reminds Hanzo of you. “Yes, our menu was developed with a lot of care and consideration of the local culture and French techniques. The additional dish you’ve requested is not on the menu—”  

The man goes on and on, gesturing at the various parts of each dish. Hanzo doesn’t pay such close attention to what he’s saying anymore, relieved and perhaps a little disappointed that it wasn’t you.

“Where did you...find the inspiration for these dish?”

For a second, something strange flickers over the man’s features, but it’s quickly replaced by that fake pleasantry that sends prickles up his ribs and spine. “The _idli_ is a staple in my home country, and the pancakes are a recipe developed by the previous esteemed Head Chef who has now moved onto more managerial duties and is now working as the CEO.”

Again with the previous head chefs. Does every cook on this planet have a head chef that they look up to and seem to be shackled by?

“I see. A pity. I would have liked to meet this Head Chef-turned-CEO,” he says somewhat sarcastically.

“If you’re interested, Mr. Tanaka, we could set up a meeting. Though the CEO is rather busy at the moment.”

Hanzo waves a hand, silently wondering just how terribly he’s lost his edge if his sarcasm is so lost on a stranger. Maybe he's gone soft. Or maybe authority is just lost on this man. “Another time then.”

“My pleasure. If you change your mind about the meeting, you can speak to Argus. She’ll set you up.” He points to the omnic who is too busy attending to the other gentleman in the restaurant to notice. Asim looks like he’s about to take the towel hanging off his apron and throw it at her unsuspecting self, barely restraining a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Asim returns his attention back to Hanzo and smiles pleasantly—an edge of playfulness that wasn't there before just shadowing his lips. “Anytime. Enjoy the remainder of your meal.”

Quiet again, Hanzo takes the time to finish up his notes and his tea, trying out each type of sweetener he’s been provided until he has no more tea to try them with, relishing in the delicate bubble of peace this restaurant, away from troubles or dangers, provides.

It wouldn't hurt to stay here longer or return to this place at a later date. It's not overly stuffy like other high-class restaurants nor is it too casual that anyone would come in here to cause a ruckus. The food was acceptable and could even give you a run for your money.

Speaking of which...

He motions for the manager who is at his table within seconds.

“The bill.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tanaka.”

She produces a small holotablet from her inner pocket—he couldn’t help but notice some stippling that presses up against the silk of her dress shirt, like her chassis was heavily damaged—but that’s quickly covered up by her presenting the bill on the screen and placing it on the table along with a mint and card bearing the name of the restaurant.

“Please take your time, and if you have enjoyed your experience, I ask you to consider becoming a donor to our charity which strives to pro—”

“I am aware.” Awkwardly, he adds, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

She leaves him to debate just how much he would like to pay on top of his bill and just how anonymous Winston has made his chip card. Winston would not risk exposing Overwatch before it’s ready, but the gorilla is a _scientist_ , not a financial expert or an accounts expert. Athena, maybe.

(Then again, Athena may as well be the expert on everything, be it finance or fashion.)

In the end, he pays the bill in full and leaves a sizable donation. It’s not as though the money he’s earning from Overwatch is of any use to him anyway.

By the time he leaves, several other customers have come in. Dignitaries, from the looks of their bodyguards who Hanzo is certain he’ll be able to take on no problem.

But he’s not here to cause any issues or take lives for no reason. He leaves it be, but mentally stores their faces in his memory for later.

The meal sits pleasantly heavy in his stomach but it’s missing something. Something Hanzo does not really have the luxury to think about. He has a mission to return to.

The day continues with a little more ground-level observations. Visits to places he knew Talon to have stopped by previously takes up most of his day and he decides to end things when the sun has begun to set.

His return to the base is quiet, weighed down by thoughts and intrusive regrets that grow heavier and heavier with the shortening distance. There’s no one to greet him—not unusual, it’s late at night and no one would take time out of their routine to give him so much as a greeting. Especially not since he left on such uncomfortable terms. If anything, he’s actual grateful for the solitude.

Hanzo pauses briefly as he passes by the cafeteria doors. He should go inside, he knows, but a heavy stone sits inside his stomach and in his limbs, refusing to let him budge. It’s unlikely his company would be appreciated especially after his rudeness. Even worse, what could he say that wouldn’t make himself cringe or want to potentially throw himself out a window?

(There’s tiny—so, so very miniscule that it may as well be non-existent—part of him that _hopes_ your mood would change if he just ate something of yours. You always seem to be in a better mood when others have eaten and—while he’s not seeking your forgiveness—he would not appreciate having the person responsible for his meals to be cross with him.)

Again, his wavering pride makes him a coward and he reasons that he can do it after he gives his report. It’ll be better for the both of you.

Hanzo drops by the briefing room only to catch Soldier hastily clicking his mask back on and Winston looking a little more than frustrated.  

“Welcome back, Agent Hanzo,” Winston grounds out, trying his best to wipe away any previous aggressions his stance may have shown, his fur slowly falling from their raised position. Soldier crosses his arms and turns away, but seems unwilling to leave.

“If this is not a good time, I can return later.” Not that he’s eager to do that either since it would mean he’d be running out of excuses to give you space.

“No, no!” Winston waves his large hands. “Never a bad time. Please, come in and relax.”

“Thank you.”

He pulls out the nearest seat for himself, but his eyes fall on something. Familiar brown wrappers, all identical and crumbled, is littered across the table in front of Soldier: 76. It takes Hanzo a moment to realize they’re the mauled remains of those vile rations. Why does he eat those when you’re here? Unless you’re mad at Soldier, too.

The gaze does not seem to go unnoticed by the man. “What’re _you_ looking at?”

Hanzo suppresses the urge to attempt to assert his authority and only answers, “I was only considering if those are recyclable.”

Soldier grumbles something underneath his breath that sounds very much like “punk” and sweeps the scraps of paper off the table and into a waiting wastebasket below his seat.

Winston clears his throat, trying to look more stern and take on the role he clearly was not meant to be in. “Thank you for taking your time to come here, I know you’ve had a long mission. Now then, Agent Hanzo. Your debrief.”

Over the course of  the next half-hour, he gives an attentive Winston and a half-listening Soldier a rundown of everything he’s observed in the past few days. The two others prod for details, interjecting with theories and occasional images of maps. But none of them get any closer to the what could be the heart of Talon's objectives.

Winston regards his words seriously, a frown on his features as he listens, occasionally stroking his furry chin. “Thank you, Agent Hanzo. Your report is excellent. They know we are active, but they do not know if this is still our main base of operations. Without coming in here, they cannot confirm such a thing.” Winston shines a grin on him and Soldier. “Not that any of our agents would let them.”

The gorilla’s optimism is nice, even ego-boosting, but the reality of the matter is much grimer.

“We should look into strengthening the defenses on base. We cannot rule out the possibility of Talon returning.”

“Fareeha and Torbjorn are in the midst of conducting a security assessment and security upgrades respectively. Unless there are some blind spots that we are unaware of, I have absolute faith in our defenses.”

Begrudgingly, Hanzo supposes that there’s no one better to do such a thing than a member of Helix Securities. Even in Japan, they’re well-known experts in the field.

“Anyway, Agent Hanzo, it's late and you must be hungry. Sorry for keeping you.”

Hanzo nearly winces, but manages to keep his features neutral. “No, not at all. I’ve already eaten.” In truth, he had only given himself a little bit of food to make up for the most decadent meal he's had in days.

“Shame. We have take-out and hate to let it go to waste.”

Blinking, he looks back down at the table where the scraps of MREs are.

Takeout?

“Different agents and at different restaurants, of course,” Winston quips, ticking them off his fingers. “Yesterday was Indian, the day before was Chinese, then before that was—”

But Hanzo has stopped listening. He's frozen to the spot, staring and feeling as though he’s slipped into some strange universe.

This isn’t right. Why are the members of the organization eating _take-out_ of all things when they have you? You’re here to cook for them, that’s all you’re here for. You’d never stop feeding anyone if you could help it. So why?

Unless...

His mouth is dry and he winces at the crack in his voice when he asks, “Where is the chef?”

Winston doesn’t look at him, but his fur does something strange. His blood runs a touch colder, a touch quicker. Soldier looks at the gorilla-scientist expectantly and if his mask were off, Hanzo was sure the man’s expression would be more than a little smug.

Again, he asks, a little more insistent, “What happened to the chef?”

A few moments of silence pass. Winston’s huge shoulders rise and slump with the force of his sighs. There’s a grimace on his face that looks a little more than just a bit guilty.

“I regret to inform you that...the chef isn’t here. On base, anyway. We’re not quite sure where either, unfortunately. Chef refuses to answer any communications recently and—”

“How long?”

“Since a week ago.”

A week.

That’s how long you’ve abandoned your duties?

A brief moment of faintness passes Hanzo by.

Nothing is more important to you than providing for Overwatch. You’ve never really hid that fact, risking your own health to ensure that. So what in the world could force you away from such a thing? Especially with Talon—as quiet as they are—roaming around, potentially ready to pounce on any unsuspecting agent.

Resolutely, he stands and declares, “I will go to look for the chef.”

“Don’t.” Solider: 76 stands up, rolling his shoulders back. “It's better this way.”

Hanzo whirls around, mouth open and ready to demand what Soldier means by that—you’re a necessary existence at the Watchpoint, you _belong_ here, you work hard and sacrifice sleep and health just so that each and every single one of them may be more ready for the day and Soldier thinks it's better than you're gone?—but he shuts it because he, too, had once thought the same. “Got something to say, Shimada?”

Hanzo realizes his thoughts must be showing on his face and tries to school it into something more neutral.

“What do you mean by that?”

The red of the visor bites into him, makes him squint, but he tries to level it look all the same. Slowly, Soldier rises from his seat and tilts his chin.

“Civilians shouldn’t get involved in our line of work. Chef made the right decision and left, we should keep it that way.”

But _why_ did you leave? What forced you to go? You were _happy_ here—or were you?

Something sinister whispers in his ear that it’s likely his fault and something ugly curls around his insides in response, squeezing out every good sense and reasonable thought from him, replacing it with something darker.

He rejected your goodwill. He’s broken more of your drinkware than he remembers. He pushed you over the edge and forced you to abandon your own principles and left.

Well, if it were so easily broken by a single person, it mustn’t have mattered as much as you always made it sound. Just pretty lip service for a weary customer who keeps you up way past a healthy bedtime (not that he’s had such a wonderful luxury, but what right did he have to rob you of yours?).

“How are you sure that the chef has not been compromised?”

Soldier huffs like it’s ridiculous. “Intel shows that Chef is still alive and kickin’. That’s good enough for us.”

“What intel?”

“Above your paygrade. Any more questions?”

Hanzo gnashes his teeth at that. It’s not as though he was paid very much in the first place. What he has on his chip card is even less now that he’s given a sizable donation to that restaurant he’s already forgotten the name of.

A scowl makes it onto his face and reluctantly, he mutters, “No.”

“Good. Conversation over. Dismissed,” the man says, hand coming up and then down, suspiciously more out of habit than anything else. Hanzo did not dwell on that for long, however. The doors behind him opens and the sound of spurs give away the exact person who walks in.

“Don’t be like that, _Soldier,_ ” McCree quips, shoving extra emphasis and dragging out the title. For what reason, Hanzo is unsure, but it seems to get a slight rise out of the old man. Like there’s a secret in the word that he was purposefully left out of the loop from.  

Overwatch and its damned secrets.

“Come on, archer. Gon’ show you where the grub is. Got too much t’ finish by my lonesome.”

Without much else, McCree turns his back and attempts to walk Hanzo out of the room. Behind them, Hanzo watches as Soldier: 76 stares, a deep furrow in his balding brow before the old man turns away and goes back to whatever he was doing.

It's not until the doors shut behind them and they're a good distance away does Hanzo begin his uneasy interrogation.

“Where is the chef, McCree?”

“Still on Gibraltar, I reckon. Didn't say a word to nobody,” McCree explains bitterly. “Upped in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. Gave everyone a good scare.”

“And the chef is safe?”

“Guaran _teed_.” Then, McCree gives him an uncomfortably sly grin. “Why? You worried?”

He bristles but doesn’t dignify that with an appropriate answer and so he just says, “I’m hungry.”

McCree, mercifully latches onto the new change in topics. “In that case, got some grub in the common room. The Junkers got it, so no guarantees it’s legal—”

Hanzo doesn’t know whether to laugh or to shout. The Junkers? Loose in Gibraltar? And how did he not notice? He had been keeping a close eye on the going-ons of Gibraltar.

“—though they came back without any of the cops on their tail. ‘S a good sign. That or Zenyatta’s chucked e’ry witness into that Iris of his.”

A mix of a snort and a noise of disbelief gets caught in his throat and Hanzo has to cough into his fist.

McCree doesn't seem to be perturbed, even smirking at the idea. “He's gettin’ them tamed. Miracle, if y’ask me.”

Silently, Hanzo agrees.

McCree steers them to the common room where the table in the middle of the room contains a heap of takeout bags and utensils. The spurs of McCree’s boots jingle obnoxiously as he flops onto a couch. Hanzo, however, takes a much more careful approprach, sitting himself down on another couch.

“Hope y'like steak,” McCree says as he passes Hanzo a container from one of the bags.

Hanzo takes the package and uncovers it, scrutinizing the contents of steak, vegetables, and potatoes. It does not smell particular bad, but it does little to stimulate an appetite.

“Why do you not use the kitchen?”

McCree gives him a funny look like Hanzo’s said something ridiculous before he starts picking at his own meal.

“We all thought 'bout it and figured it'd best be used when there are more people 'round. S'only Winston, Soldier, the Junkers, Mei, you an’ me here now. Everyone else got sent off.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Lúcio's supposed to be here soon, though. Tracer's gone t’ pick him up.”

“I see.” He wants to press the matter and ask if it isn’t because you will return and get angry at them or if it’s not because they respect you, but he didn’t want to tread that road.

Instead, he saws apart a piece of steak for himself—the insides a bit greyish and barely pink—stabs a few soggy string beans and shoves it into his mouth. He nearly gags.

It’s lukewarm and overcooked. The meat is chewy and dry and he finds himself searching the discarded paper bags for anything that could make it more palatable and fishes out pats of butter which he slatters onto the crappy steak.

McCree asks with a laugh in his voice, “What? Too shitty for ya?”

He tries to swallow down his newly slathered piece of steak and finds it marginally more acceptable. “How can you even eat this?”

McCree shrugs one shoulder, and as if to prove a point, shovels a forkful into his mouth and eats it like it’s actually palatable. Hanzo has to repress a shudder, but not to be outdone, he does the same as McCree speaks.

“Well, when you been on the run, you know how it is.” He waves his fork around, gesturing at some unseen knowledge. “Don’t get much of a choice, an’ it’s better than starvin’. _Trust_ me.”

The archer makes a face of disgust as he chews through another soggy string bean. “I’d rather starve,” he mutters to himself.

“Helps if y’ killed your taste buds years ago.” He pauses and then gives Hanzo an unnecessary wink. “Don’t tell our dear old Chef, though. Don’t want t’ be breakin’ no one’s heart, hear?”

The air goes still, the confession striking a delicate chord inside him.

And out of some childish spite, he almost wants to. He has your contact information, he could easily send a message telling you that McCree’s love of your food, for all the praises he sings and the gusto which he eats it, is a damn lie—

But that would crush you, he’s sure.

The anger surges anew as he strikes another thought. If he did not truly appreciate your cooking, then why would he even want you back? Maybe he doesn't and that's why he's sitting here as though Overwatch _isn't_ missing a valuable asset. Maybe he even wants you gone, too, just like Soldier.

“If you can't taste anything, then why even bother with the chef?”

“Cause,” he drawls, “it ain't gentlemanly t’ turn down someone's kindness. ‘Sides, man’s gotta eat.”

“You never deserved that kindness!” he shouts, slamming a hand onto the table. The plate and fork clatters. McCree only looks up at him, a strangely smug expression on his face that only enrages him even more. Hanzo almost wants to sink his teeth into the bridge of his nose, rip it off, and just make the cowboy regret ever being born.

“And _you_ do?”

Hanzo takes a staggering steps back. The words struck him so hard that the world tilts momentarily, the edges falling away and his vision turns blurry.

No.

 _No_ , he never did.

So why is he here, lecturing someone over something like he's any better? McCree _lies_ and pretends like he gives a damn about your food, but because he cares to preserve your feelings.

And he?

Nothing comes to mind except the things he’s never wanted to face, things he thought himself to be above, to be superior to, but are constantly plaguing him and nipping at his heels.

“Excuse me.”

“Hey, wai—”

He ignores McCree and uses up every bit of willpower to not sprint to his room like a child scolded. He returns to bed, orders Athena to  a little hungrier than he would've liked, head buzzing with implications and unanswered questions and the irritating knowledge that he has learned absolutely nothing from his previous experience and just keeps repeating his mistakes.  

Sleep comes and goes for several hours until it becomes unbearable.

Hanzo throws himself off the bed, ignoring the time that so clearly indicates _why_ he is awake and stalks down the familiar path that leads him to the mess hall. He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, but the Watchpoint seems quieter and colder somehow. It feels like a stranger.

Again, he pauses before the doors, less restricted but hesitant nonetheless.

You’re not there. You’re most likely not in there. But he wants to— _needs to_ —confirm this with his own eyes to quiet the incessant whispers of ‘what if’. With a deep breath, he steels himself and steps forward, allowing the sliding doors to reveal what he had hoped is not true.

The cafeteria is cold.

Almost unnaturally so.

No milky-silver moon hanging over the large glass windows above, no artificial lights from the service window, no sound, no movement; just himself and a terrifyingly familiar sensation of having, being, knowing nothing.

There's nothing but an all-consuming darkness and strange sense of despair at the empty partition.

Where _are_ you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tanaka, Ichirou thing doesn't have any particular reference. I just needed a very, very generic name, hence "Tanaka" and since he's the first son, "Ichirou".


End file.
